


that which we are, we are

by celebros



Series: that which we are, we are [3]
Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Dammit Jim, F/M, Feelings, Gen, M/M, Mind Meld, Psychological Trauma, Rebuilding, Slow Build, Storytelling, post-STID, the khan serum is some messed up stuff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-04
Updated: 2015-05-16
Packaged: 2018-03-05 10:06:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 47,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3116099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/celebros/pseuds/celebros
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It takes Spock a year to tell the whole story—a year spanning the length of San Francisco, from a stony bayside overlooking the destruction to a Russian teahouse in the heart of the city to a booth in the back of a bar where the bridge crew meets every two weeks to drink away the things they’ve seen. Jim never drinks, and looks haunted in the dim red lights, so Spock and Nyota come with him to the booths in the back when that happens and they talk and sometimes Jim just says, “Tell me a story,” so Spock tells—"</p><p>After he wakes, Jim can't escape what's happened: Pike, Marcus, Khan, San Francisco, his own death and resurrection and the terrible consequences. To get their ship back, Spock must help him come to terms with the reality—and tell his own stories to pass on the message that Pike left behind. Slow build Jim/Spock (against the background of a crumbling Spock/Uhura, but no Uhura hatin'). Part three of "that which we are, we are", following "Though much is taken, much abides" and "that strength which in old days moved earth and heaven".</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. one.

one.

It takes Spock a year to tell the whole story—a year spanning the length of San Francisco, from a stony bayside overlooking the destruction to a Russian teahouse in the heart of the city to a booth in the back of a bar where the bridge crew meets every two weeks to drink away the things they’ve seen. Jim never drinks, and looks haunted in the dim red lights, so Spock and Nyota come with him to the booths in the back when that happens and they talk and sometimes Jim just says, “Tell me a story,” so Spock tells—

***

The first time Spock melded with Christopher Pike, it had been at Chris’s request. It was an early mission. Spock had come to Pike five months before as the expert on the Kelvin disaster to discuss its implications on the test he’d been asked to design, the _Kobayashi Maru_. Pike had given him, in return to his queries, the most significant professional partnership Spock had experienced to date. When Pike’s Number One had been asked to step down, Pike had requested Spock be promoted and set as his first officer. Spock understood that such a request was considered highly unusual, especially considering his studies at Starfleet had to that point been largely academic. However, Pike had commented on several occasions on the easy rapport between them, so when the offer was made he accepted it without hesitation.

Pike had asked Spock, after a particularly unstimulating diplomatic mission, to join him in the Captain’s quarters for a drink. Spock had understood a slight undercurrent of resolve in the request, which was something of a mystery to him, or he would have declined the invitation.

That was when then-Captain Pike asked Spock to join their minds.

It had been brief. After, Pike had apologized. “I didn’t realize it would be so… intimate,” he said, tasting the last word like something sour.

“My apologies, Captain,” Spock said. “I should have ascertained that you understood the magnitude of your request. This was, however, a light meld. We maintained a separateness that is not common among Vulcan-initiated melds. The majority are far more intimate than the one you have just experienced. If you found it unpleasant, I suggest you avoid any psi-contact in the future, if possible. Most would be more invasive.”

“Well,” Pike said, “I wouldn’t say unpleasant.” After a moment, “May I ask a question about your experience?”

“Indeed.”

“Is it difficult for you to meld with humans? Surely our emotionality compounds the difficulty of maintaining control.”

“It is true that the meld can be difficult with species that lack our rigorous mental controls. I would like to recognize your own restraint, however. Your emotions, while unbridled, were not difficult to navigate and incorporate into my structure during the meld.”

“Mister Spock, I believe that was a compliment,” Pike said wryly.

“Indeed. Your control is commendable.”

A few minutes later, Pike had dismissed him, and they hadn’t spoken of it any more for the duration of that mission.

***

Jim likes stories about Pike. He’s told a few of his own, as repayment for Spock’s, although never the ones that Spock knew Nyota most wants to hear. (No one knows what Chris had said to Kirk, at a bar in Riverside, to convince him to join the ‘Fleet. No one knows what Chris had said to Kirk, at a bar just off Headquarters, the last time they’d sat down together.)

But what Nyota doesn’t know is how many stories Spock isn’t telling, either. It will be, one day, for Jim’s ears alone to hear what Chris had said to Spock the last time _they’d_ spoken in private. For now, he still finds the topic painful. He meditates on it often. He does not refuse to admit the pain to himself, but neither does he speak of it out loud.

Nyota stays with the rest of the crew, one night, when Jim sets his half-full water glass on the bar with a loud clink and turns abruptly away. She lifts her head slightly to acknowledge Spock’s departure, indicating that she is making a conscious decision not to join them. Spock nods back at her and slides into the booth across from Jim.

“Captain,” he says quietly, “would you like to relocate?”

Jim looks at him for a moment with something near hostility in his eyes. Then he looks away and nods.

“Wouldn’t mind it,” he says. “It’s a nice night. Walk with me?”

But his step is meandering, and after a few blocks Spock is guiding them. They move toward the bay. The water has always been calming to Jim: Doctor McCoy had confirmed this theory, when asked. “Close to space as you get when you’re planetside,” he’d said, and Spock has found some merit in the observation.

They stand by the railings looking over the smooth water. Jim presses his hips against the railings, in fact, and doesn’t look back toward the city that reflects before him. “I’ve still never been fishing, you know,” he says, as if the continuation of a long conversation.

“Unfortunately, the botanists have reported that 92.6% of the marine life in the bay was contaminated by the events of four months ago,” Spock says. “However, there are unaffected streams further north that are fishable with proper licensure. I am certain you could arrange transport.”

“Have you been?” Jim asks, and then barks a laugh. “Dumb question. You grew up on a desert planet.”

“I spent several seasons on Earth during my childhood,” Spock offers. “My maternal grandfather expressed a wish to introduce me to the sport during those visits. But you are correct. I have not been fishing.”

Jim leans forward and presses his elbows against the railings, then looks over his shoulder at Spock. “Are your grandparents still alive?”

“Negative, Captain.”

“Jim,” Jim murmurs, and looks back at the water. “Mine either.” He’s silent a moment. “I haven’t talked to my family. About any of this. I don’t even know if my mom has found out about Pike. I told you they knew each other when I was a kid, right? I guess I should have sent her a stream if for no other reason than to make sure she heard it from me, but I haven’t had the heart.” He stands up straight.

“My elder counterpart was dismayed to hear of Admiral Pike’s passing,” Spock says softly. He modulates his pitch on these subjects for Jim’s sake. Uhura and his mother had both, at various times, explained to him how such subtleties of vocal delivery could affect humans’ emotional reception.

Jim smiles a little. “You talk to him often?”

“No. But we did speak extensively while you were indisposed. He was very insistent that I keep him updated on your situation.”

“He would be,” Jim laughs softly, and looks back at Spock again, consideringly. “Want to come to my place? I don’t know if you’re tired, but I’m sure as hell not sleeping tonight.”

“That seems ill-advised, Captain. The human body requires—”

“My human brain and my human body haven’t agreed with each other often recently,” Jim interrupts, a little sharp again, and Spock reminds himself, again, that his own inability to accept his captain’s pain is as much a source of suffering as the pain itself.

“Surely the doctor could provide you with—”

“We’ve been over this. You were there. I’m not letting them dope me up. Anyway, I check in with Bones every couple days. He says I’m healthy, and my vitals aren’t outside standard deviation on days after I don’t sleep. Come with me; I’ll make you some tea.” He does not object any further. With this new information comes a sense of unrest, and the likelihood that Spock will find sleep tonight is less than four percent. If Jim finds a vid to watch, he resolves, he will attempt to meditate.

The auto-settings in the captain’s apartment have been changed: when Jim drawls, “Lights,” they rise only to 15%, dim enough to cause eyestrain. Jim corrects them quickly to the standard 60% and shifts his weight side to side briefly, a sign of discomfort, before bustling into the kitchenette, drawing an old-fashioned kettle full of water and setting it on the heating element. He looks around at Spock with a crooked smile and gestures to his seating area, a low settee with plush seats and mismatched throw pillows. Spock sits and watches while Jim withdraws ceramic coffee mugs, sets a tray with a jar of honey, a small pitcher of milk, the empty mugs, a bag of spiced rooibos and another of the special blend he’d made for Spock—Spock can smell the blueberry-rose blend from his seat—and, when it’s ready, a pot filled with the steaming water from the kettle. He sets the tea tray on the table before the couch and then settles back into the cushions with a loud sigh.

“I surmise that you had a trying day,” Spock says, leaning forward to set their tea pouches in the mugs and pour over water to begin the steeping.

Jim closes his eyes briefly. “I don’t mean to be so obvious about it,” he says after a moment. “I get more than my fair share of pity as it is.”

“You are not alone in your transparency,” Spock says. “I am often able to pick up on body-language cues to determine when humanoids are displeased. Also, you seem tired, despite your words to the contrary when we left the bay. I have not often seen you tired, lately.”

“No, that’s true, I’ve been bounding with energy,” Jim nods. “It was… we had another meeting. Archer and I. He’s pretty sure they’re going to bring Nogura up on charges, and at that point he’s no longer the _de facto_ head but a permanent appointment. He’s furious. He thinks he should have seen signs sooner, that Section 31 was getting out of control. He was just raging about them, about all this stuff he’s found out they were doing, this intel they abused, and then he stopped and said he wished Pike was here. And I just lost it, Spock. In front of the fucking Admiral. I… I blamed myself, and I couldn’t stop shaking, and he told me…”

Spock has frozen. He is looking at the teapot, at the curls of rising steam, at the deep brown of the tea in Jim’s cup, and he cannot meet Jim’s eyes.

“He told me I wasn’t going to pass the psych evals,” Jim says quietly. “That I needed to get my shit together or he wouldn’t give me my ship back.”

“Unacceptable.” There is a tight fist of ice in Spock’s stomach, a painful tension in his throat. Without conscious movement he has come to face Jim. He cannot think what facial expression he must be wearing, what tone he must have used, to inspire the surprise on his captain’s face. “Such a statement is unproductive and unprofessional. The admiral does not serve Starfleet in a medical capacity; it is not within his purview to say—”

Jim’s face goes thunderous and he interrupts again. “Don’t give me that shit, Spock. I didn’t have an awful day because Archer yelled at me. I had an awful day because he was _right_ and he’s the first person to have the nerve to tell me so. I _cannot be a captain_ unless I get better, and I haven’t been—I haven’t even been _trying_. I’ve been wallowing, you and Uhura and Bones are the only people I’ll even talk to, and you all love me too much to push me but I think—” The breath and fury leave him as quickly as they had come. “I think I need to be pushed,” he says quietly.

“Do you intend to seek psychiatric help?” Spock asks when the void of silence becomes uncomfortable. He is not certain his contribution has eased that discomfort.

“I don’t know,” Jim answers. “I know I should. But a shrink is going to want me to talk, to come to terms with this stuff, and I feel like I’m not ready for that. I need to organize everything in my head, because it’s all a jumble now.” His lips twist, his eyes flinty. He reaches forward so quickly Spock is almost startled; removes the pouches from the mugs and tosses them onto the tray with a _plop_. Methodically, he stirs milk and honey into his own cup, then adds a quarter-teaspoon of honey to Spock’s without needing to ask.

“I am certain a professional could assist with the process of organizing your thoughts, as well,” Spock says, lifting his cup to his lips and inhaling the aromas. He is aware they are delicate, desirable, a weave of scents and flavors that he himself finds pleasant, but he takes no pleasure from them now.

“Yeah,” Jim says. He sounds dejected, his shoulders slumping with a defeat he is only partially attempting to mask, his frown completely unhidden. “I just hadn’t even really let myself think of it until he was saying it. What do I do if I don’t pass, Spock? If they end up giving the ship to someone else and you all warp off without me?”

Spock’s instinct is to answer strongly: to say that this will not happen, to say that he will not allow it, that the crew would not allow it, but he cannot speak to that instinct without further thought. In truth, if Admiral Archer asked Spock to take the captaincy, he would not accept, but if the spot was given to another captain, he cannot say that he would resign his commission rather than abandon his friend. New worlds and new civilizations capture his attention like nothing else he has discovered, and he has a duty to Starfleet.

“I cannot imagine seeking the stars without you at my side, Jim,” he says softly, because that is true. “Captaining a starship is your first, best destiny. If you desire, I will dedicate my efforts to assisting in your psychological rehabilitation. I will do whatever I can to prevent that which the admiral threatened today. If the admiralty will allow it, I would do so in lieu of accepting a professorship next semester.” Jim bites his lip, and although he does not look up again, he reaches out a hand blindly and sets it on Spock’s shoulder. It is warm and heavy and comforting, and Spock thinks he is not the one who should need comfort right now, but he cannot deny it serves that purpose.

“Thank you,” Jim says. His fingers tighten, then release. “I appreciate that. I don’t want to believe it will be necessary, but… I know it’s stupid, Spock, but sometimes I feel like I can do anything if I know you’re on my side.”

“I am,” Spock says, “on your side.”

“I won’t forget.”

“I will not allow you to forget.”

“Fuck,” Jim says, and takes in a deep breath. “That’s a lot, Spock. This is… It’s going to my head a little bit. You’re not usually this open.”

“I am compromised,” he admits, barely thinking the words before he speaks them, but he knows it to be true. “The idea that you might be separated from us again is deeply upsetting to me.”

“I don’t want to keep making you feel these emotions,” Jim says, looking up again, his eyes wide. “It seems like I keep pulling you back there, to these things you swore not to feel.”

 _Fear. Anger. Confusion. Loneliness._ It is not untrue, but it seems irrelevant now. Spock is aware that this is a sign of the depth of his compromise, but knowing does not change it.

He cannot say so. He has said too much already, spoken many words of honesty with little hesitation, and he remembers Nyota’s accusation: that he could choose to stop feeling for her, but that he could not choose to stop feeling for Jim. He hadn’t denied it then, had cataloged the stirring of emotions that came with those words so that he could meditate on them, but each time they had arisen his meditation had come to a premature halt. Now he can say so: he cannot believe that even _kolinahr_ could purge him of the things he feels now, and that is troubling indeed.

“My emotions are my own responsibility, Jim,” he says. “You need not trouble yourself with them.” But now within him there is a deep thrum, like a plucked chord that begins a song, and even the dread that accompanies it cannot wash out the sense of relief.


	2. two.

The truth is, Jim keeps the lights in his apartment at fifteen percent because he almost always has a migraine. Honestly, he’d been glad when it started. He _wanted_ side effects, wanted pain, wanted anything that drew a line that placed him further away from Khan. Khan, he was sure, hadn’t had anything as human as migraines.

 

After a few days of the pain, though, his resolve to suffer through it had weakened. He’d requested a patient meeting with Bones and Boyce, and they’d ruled out allergies and caffeine withdrawal and stress and several nasty theories to do with brain damage and then had drawn up a treatment plan: low light, more sleep, less screen time, maybe some meditation. And another boatload of hypos, which he’s now allowed to administer to himself pretty much whenever he feels like it.

 

He’s gotten used to the dim now, and it’s sort of nice. People do soothing things in low light: some of the crew used to do aerobics and old-fashioned yoga by fake candlelight in the gym, and in the Academy’s choral group, Nyota had always performed with the lights down, and Spock meditates in dim light. He tries to think of soothing things to do. He can’t read or watch vids, but when the migraines are at their worst, those would be out of the question anyway.

 

He’d bought himself a sketchpad, one evening in Riverside, but he’s not very good at drawing. His hands are steady but he doesn’t know where to put the lines. He tries to draw the Enterprise, but feels hollow and angry when he can’t get her shape right. He crumples up more pieces of the precious paper than he’d like to admit.

 

He listens to music: first old Earth recordings, Bach and Latin chants and scratchy blues, then anything alien that he can get his hands on: mournful Denobulan lullabies, ballads on the Rigelian hand-flute. The Vulcan lyre is particularly soothing. But eventually music makes him lonely.

 

He tries yoga. Finds he’s really good at it. He can stretch past his old limits, balance for minutes on end. Stops. That line has grown blurrier. He needs to be doing something Khan couldn’t possibly do.

 

That’s the way his nights go now, mostly. He’s been out twice with Spock and Nyota in the week since his disastrous meeting with Archer, and that’s nicer than he’d expected, never third-wheel-y. They’re the only ones on the crew who seem at ease in his presence—even Bones looks nervous every time Jim cracks his neck or helps himself to a hypo for the pain. It’s not that Spock and Nyota _don’t_ worry, but they know to turn it off in his presence, so he knows they understand how much it means to him.

 

The only thing he worries about is that sometimes it seems like they’re paying him more attention than each other, and he sees the balance of unease and comfort in them when they touch. In any case, tonight they’re on a date, so comming them up isn’t an option.

 

But he’s tired of puttering around. He helps himself to a hypo from the massive stash beside his couch and brews a mug of tea: that always helps him think.

 

His brother Sam has gotten engaged: that was a while back, but Jim had never said anything proper to congratulate him. He waits until his migraine has faded, turns the lights back up to sixty, and records a comm to send. He thinks about trying to reach the elder Spock on New Vulcan, but the old man’s worry and pity are worse than any of the crew. He can see, in the old Vulcan’s eyes, a terrible judgment—suppressed well, but not well enough to hide from Jim, because Jim’s been in his mind and Jim knows him better than he should and Jim can see these things. He sees Spock thinking, _It wasn’t supposed to be like this_. Thinking _This is not my Captain_. Thinking _What if it never comes to pass?_ although what “it” is Jim can’t begin to guess. No, he can’t take that now.

 

What he would have done before is go for a run. Grimly, grudgingly, he decides he can’t let Khan take that from him.

 

He’s not ready to run through the city, and the Starfleet gymnasium he used to frequent has been destroyed. ( _All that equipment_ he thinks first and then guiltily _all that life_ and imagines the people on the treadmills, earbuds in, all kinds of bodies, some of them happy and some of them miserable with who they are, and they don’t know what’s coming, what’s plowing toward them, although maybe the ground shakes so the headphones wouldn’t matter.)

 

He almost changes his mind, but he knows, he _knows_ , that Khan would be mocking him right now. He goes to the hospital gym.

 

He’s not ready for weights, but he meanders into the cardio section and finds, among the handful of moving bodies, a familiar shape. Carol is crouched on one of the elliptical machines, pedaling as if her life depends on it. Even at that speed, the movements are fluid and natural. Jim stands at the back of the room and feels a wave of guilt. Carol, of course. Carol is who he should be calling, when there’s no one else and probably even when there is someone. Of everyone, Carol is the one most likely to understand where he’s coming from, and she’s undoubtedly in the same boat, if not worse.

 

He hops atop the elliptical next to her and catches her eye. Her face lights up; he grins and waves. “Jim!” she says, pulling out her earbuds. “Or—Captain, I’m sorry, I’m not sure—”

 

“Jim is fine,” he says. “I was just coming here for a late-night workout.” Thank you, Captain Obvious. “Didn’t expect to see any familiar faces. But I didn’t mean to interrupt you.”

 

“Not at all,” she says. “It’s lovely to see you about.”

 

“How long are you going to be here?” he asks. “I was just planning on a half-hour whirl. Getting back into the swing.” Actually, his plan had been to go until the panic started, or until they kicked him out, which could have been hours. But this plan is much better.

 

“Half an hour more sounds perfect. If you don’t have one already, there’s a lovely half-hour visualization program—it’s a ride on the French coast, I programmed it in myself when I was starting out with my—” She breaks off, twists her lip, touches her knee. The little gestures: she’s beautiful. He used to be a man who would say so, and he even remembers when, staring at her wide-eyed in the shuttle and he would have told her so then but he’d been wildly and completely unprepared for her to be so…

 

“Perfect,” Jim says, and it really is. They ride the French coast side by side, and he takes a leisurely pace. The ‘buds feed him the sound of gulls and waves and wind, and there’s no panic at all, not even at the edges of his consciousness. The trail ends on a beach. He sits still on the bike for a minute, letting the sounds wash over him, and wishes. It could have been a real ride. If she’d invited him, right then, to hop a shuttle to France and find an out-of-the-way hostel and then rent bikes for an early-morning ride to a beach, and then they’d park their bikes and sit in the sun, maybe with a beer—

 

He pulls out the earbuds and dismounts.

 

“Would you like to go for a drink?” Carol asks, endearingly awkward with her head tilted to the side. It’s late, and he’s supposed to sleep. He doesn’t drink anymore. The pulsing lights and crows and bad music aren’t likely to do him any favors. And they’re both wearing tight shorts and athletic tanks. He takes that all in and still can’t say no.

 

They hit up the bar Jim frequents with the crew, one of the ones on the outskirts whose windows and bottles and glasses had been broken by the wave of destruction but who’d stayed standing and rebuilt fast. It’s not far from the hospital, and half the clientele are wearing scrubs. The other half probably have family in the hospital. Jim tries, tries, tries not to think _they’re all here because of me_. He fails, but only just.

 

“Can I get a Sprite?” Jim asks the bartender, “and…” he gestures to Carol.

 

“A cola,” she says. The tender raises a brow and turns its back to fill two tall cups with ice, and Jim looks at the bar for a moment before realizing that Carol is chuckling. He breaks out the crooked grin he’s been holding back, and then they both laugh and laugh. Their drinks come, and Jim pays the tab, and they slip into one of the back booths under the red light for a few minutes. They sip their sodas quietly, and then they leave.

 

“I didn’t realize you weren’t drinking either,” she says in the cool darkness of the street. “Silly of me. I’m thinking of the old you, the you with the reputation I knew, and of course you’re not that man anymore.”

 

“Not for now, anyway,” Jim says, but he knows he doesn’t have to say that.

 

They end up at the waterside. It’s half past midnight, and it’s chilly, and more so in workout clothes that have been dampened with sweat, but although they both complain a little, they don’t make a move to leave. It’s unspoken, but they know: Jim’s not inviting her to his place, and she’s not inviting him to hers, so when they get up, that’s the end of the night.

 

They talk about Bones. How Jim met him, both hung over on a shuttle to San Francisco, both completely at the ends of their ropes. How they’d both hated the roommates they were assigned but neither of them could afford a single, so at the end of the first semester they’d both transferred. Carol talked about Christine, who had been one of Bones’s friends; Jim had had a drunken fling with her when Christine had least needed it, and now Jim was the kind of person who could feel sorry, although there was nothing to be done and in the end he’d probably saved her life by driving her away. Eventually he said so, and Carol’d said, “You really think that way, don’t you?” and they’d been quiet for a while.

 

Then Jim’s comm buzzes. It’s three in the morning, but he’s not surprised that the name on the screen is Spock: _Captain, are you well?_

 

_Spock, didn’t you have a hot date? Also, it’s the middle of the night, and I’m guessing it’s not your Vulcan intuition telling you I’m still awake. Where are you?_

 

In return, Spock calls. “Sorry,” Jim says to Carol, as an aside. “It’s my Vulcan stalker. Hello?”

 

“Jim,” Spock says, sounding relieved. “My apologies for interrupting you. My evening with Nyota was terminated early, and I visited your apartment. I thought you might be amenable to a game of chess, and I wished to give Nyota space… we are sharing my lodgings while her water mains are offline.”

 

“You’re in my lobby, aren’t you,” Jim says.

 

“I am. As the night progressed and you had not arrived, I grew concerned that you were unwell. Again, my apologies; I should not have presumed. Now that I have ascertained that you are in good health, I will retire to my own apartment. Good night.”

 

“Wait,” Jim says. “No, no, Spock, you might as well stay. It’ll take you ages to get home on foot, and you’ll wake up Nyota. I’ll be home in half an hour.”

 

Pause. “Very well. I will see you then.” The call terminates and Jim looks up at Carol wryly.

 

“That didn’t sound good,” she says. “Are they going through a rough patch?”

 

“They don’t really talk about it,” Jim says, “but yeah, it seems like it. Maybe I can get Nyota to open up about it over tea.”

 

“Can I walk you home?” Carol asks. “You’re in the campus west building, yeah? My place is past there.”

 

“Sure,” Jim says, and he thinks of holding her hand all the way back to his apartment, but doesn’t do it. They part outside the front door with a hug, and Jim wonders if that was the wrong thing. But Spock is there in the yellow light of the building’s lobby, his back straight and his hands folded, and as soon as Jim sees him, something warm in his throat tells him he’s glad he didn’t hold Carol’s hand, or kiss her, or bring her home.

 

He’s not going to think about what that means. He’s going to spend all night not thinking about it.


	3. three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On a freaking ROLL with this "writing and updating" thing, you guys. This is a chapter with feels and Old Spock and those moments where you want to knock these boys' heads together.

Spock is making tea. Jim’s been awake for an hour or so, but the sound of the teakettle whistling means his First Officer has heard him moving around, or heard the change in his breathing patterns or something. Means he’s expected. He checks the chrono again and groans, but rolls his legs over the edge of the bed and lets his bare feet hit the floor. He’s used to a chill, but there’s none this morning: he’d raised the temperature last night, which surely Spock has figured out by now. Knowing Spock, Jim’s probably going to get an earful about his own health being paramount blah blah blah, but he doesn’t mind it being a little warmer.

 

In truth, he wishes the floor was a little colder. He’s guessing he got about forty-five minutes of sleep, between the late-hour arrival and the tossing and turning, and he could use a bit of chill for a wake-up. He’d hop in for a cold shower if Spock wasn’t here, but well.

 

He considers his wardrobe for a moment, the neat line of uniform shirts and crisp gray slacks, then throws on a tee and a pair of flannel pajama pants and shuffles into the kitchen. “Good morning,” he says, and Spock raises a brow at him.

 

“I would not think so,” his First Officer says coolly. “Your mornings are generally suboptimal when you have not slept sufficiently.” Jim snorts, picks up the tray and brings it into the living-room area, and quirks his own brow at Spock, who follows. The tea isn’t finished steeping, but Jim lifts his mug and lets steam waft over his face.

 

“You had a shitty night too, huh?” Usually Spock objects to his choice of words when he phrases a question so colloquially, but he is quiet for a moment.

 

Spock bends over the coffee table and curls his fingers around his own mug, but does not lift it. His lips are tight. “My attempts at meditation were unsuccessful.”

 

“Nyota’s gotta be up by now. I know the unfamiliar environment doesn’t help; you can head home if you want.”

 

“I am aware. Despite my fatigue, I have no desire to do so.”

 

Jim bites his lip. “So this is pretty serious, huh?” he asks, pulling the sachet out of his mug and setting it on the tray without squeezing it out. “You guys not getting along.”

 

“Indeed,” Spock says, and fidgets, wrapping his teabag around his spoon to drain off the excess liquid and then stirring the tea, clinking the spoon against the mug. “I am uncertain if it is appropriate to discuss this with you.” Jim feels a pang and tries to cover any physical tells with a sip of scalding tea. Spock lifts his own mug, but does not sip.

 

“I mean, in terms of human protocol, discussing relationship difficulties with your friends is pretty okay,” Jim offers weakly. “Obviously it’s different for you, though. No pressure, I just… I’m worried about you guys, to be honest.”

 

“It is complicated.”

 

Jim can’t help but laugh. “I’m sorry. I know. It’s just sort of a cliché.” He forces himself to sober up. “Look, I know I don’t have a reputation for being good at long-term relationships. Or, for having them at all, actually. But I’m smart, and I’m good at reading people, and if you want to talk to me, I’m willing to try to help you figure out what’s going wrong.”

 

“You mistake me.” Spock sets his mug down heavily and averts his eyes. Jim feels a chill. “Your reputation is not the cause of my hesitation.”

 

“Spock?”

 

“One of Nyota’s difficulties,” Spock says, and pauses. “One of her _frustrations_ is in the contrast between the manner of my interactions with her, and the manner of my interactions with you. My ease with you, and my emotional compromise, are upsetting to her.”

 

Jim could read that several ways, and does. At first he’s surprised. She’s jealous, which sparks something strange and fearful in him: that is not what he wants, never what he wants. _Isn’t it?_ a small voice asks, and he thinks of the spark of triumph he’s felt every time he sees Spock open up. But that’s never been about _contrast_ , never a competition, and it shouldn’t be.

 

Then he’s angry.

 

“No,” he says firmly, and sets his mug down beside Spock’s, turning toward the center of the couch so his body is facing Spock’s. Spock turns to mirror him, clearly unprepared for Jim’s vehemence, but he can’t stop there, can’t let even an ounce of repression creep between them. “That’s not fair of her. You don’t _choose_ to be compromised; you told her as much in the shuttle over Q’on’oS, and dammit, it’s not a competition. She’s your partner, your lover; I’m your friend and your captain. Of course things are different.” _And she hasn’t died recently_ , Jim doesn’t say. “Of course you balance our relationships in different ways. Of course there are vulnerabilities, and barriers, that show up for you more with one of us than the other. Spock…” Jim loves Nyota, and he doesn’t want to be mad at her, but the way Spock is looking at him right now, the open pain, the self-loathing—Jim would never allow himself to be responsible for that.

 

_Dammit, it’s not a competition._

 

He takes a deep breath. “Look,” he says, “I just want you to know, when I see you together… I can see how hard you’re trying. I can see the gestures you make, the sacrifices in your own comfort, to accommodate her. Maybe she’s taking that for granted.” He sits back against the couch cushions and closes his eyes. “Sorry,” he says. “I’m a little…” Maybe it’s because he _isn’t_ good at long-term relationships that this gets him so wound up. Is that it? That it’s so obvious how perfect they are for each other that it’s frustrating to see them not realize it?

 

It’s not that. “Sorry,” he says again, and Spock sets a hand on his shoulder. Jim opens his eyes to look over at him: Spock’s body is still turned toward him on the couch, his eyes dark and liquid and _fucking intense_.

 

“Jim,” Spock says quietly, “I appreciate your candor. I will consider your perspective.” He seems to hesitate, and draws his hand back. “I anticipate that Nyota will be upset that I have spoken to you of this. I am certain she will feel the knowledge a burden to you, and not one that ought to be yours to bear. Now that I have spoken, I cannot be certain I disagree with her.”

 

“No,” Jim says, and if they were talking about anything else, he would reach out right now, maybe touch his fingertips to the back of Spock’s hand, but that’s not likely to make this conversation any easier. “Look, I get that she might be upset, and maybe she has the right to be since they’re her feelings we’re talking about, but I’m glad to know. It pertains to me, and it’s not fair of her to expect you to keep it to yourself.”

 

Spock’s face hardens. Jim’s said the wrong thing. It passes quickly, but Spock’s voice has changed when he speaks again and Jim curses inwardly. “Again, it is beneficial for me to hear your perspective.” Another pause. “I will inform her that we have spoken of it. I hope that she will allow you to gain her perspective, as well. It is possible that I have misrepresented her view, considering its emotional nature.”

 

“Spock,” Jim says softly. “It’s all right. You haven’t done anything wrong. But I’m sorry if I was prying. Like I said, I worry about you guys. Anyway, maybe with this in the open, we can sort it out. I can probably help put Nyota at ease. I know this is probably an illogical human concept, but you guys are right for each other, and I won’t get in the way of that. If she needs me to back off a little—”

 

“Jim, I have promised to assist you in your own difficulties,” Spock says. “It is Nyota who will be made to understand that she must not interfere in this matter.”

 

“Is this Old You talking?” Jim asks, and suddenly he’s sure it is, and he’s furious at the old man. “Listen, things were different for them. You can’t let him prioritize your relationships for you.”

 

Spock grows quiet, and Jim takes that as a concession.

 

***

 

He is incorrect.

 

Spock leaves Jim’s apartment exponentially more unsettled than he entered it. _Kaiidth_ , he reminds himself with some strain, but were he capable of changing the shape of what is, he would wish for a second chance at the morning. _Kaiidth_ , but Jim is incorrect. Spock has behaved wrongly, inappropriately. He does not required external verification of the legitimacy of his emotions. That is a human instinct, but his emotional awareness and controls are sufficient. When he feels, he feels with certainty. Yet he had spoken as if that human instinct was natural to him.

 

Worse, Jim was able to perceive his discomfort, and nothing Spock said seemed to dissuade him from his own emotions. They had managed to shift the conversation, through mutual effort, to the ever-present topic of recovery efforts: tomorrow they will meet to collaborate on the conceptual map of San Francisco, which is nearing completion. Jim suggested that Spock could invite Nyota, likely as an effort to demonstrate to her that she has no reason for envy; that Spock’s relationship with his captain is constructive. Spock had not rejected the idea aloud, but he knows that once he has spoken to Nyota, she will not wish to come. He must confess to her that he has spoken to Jim of her feelings, lest she find out from Jim himself. Perhaps he can temper her distress by confessing it as a wrongdoing. Or perhaps that will make it worse. He hears her voice, _You just can’t help yourself around him_. The shame deepens. Why could it not be Jim’s voice he hears now? _You haven’t done anything wrong._ But it is not in that direction his mind, his memory, his imagination move.

 

A new thought enters, one of his own instead of an echo from the others. _You’re talking to him about everything except that which is important._ And immediately as he thinks it, he feels a wash of guilt. Is not his relationship with Nyota _important_?

 

He enters his apartment, but finds it empty. The bed is unmade. He folds the sheets for laundry. They smell of her.

 

_Is this Old You talking?_

 

Perhaps it should be. Spock comms his counterpart.

 

“Mister Spock,” the elder says calmly. It is late night on New Vulcan, but the elder Spock sleeps even less than the younger.

 

“Mister Spock,” he responds, and is unable to mirror the calm. His lack of emotional control is, he knows, immediately visible and dissectible. Any Vulcan could see the torment, let alone his counterpart. “I wish to speak to you.”

 

“This is evident.” Spock nearly flushes. It is exceedingly unsettling to know that his elder self is aware of this, aware of every half-emotion and aborted gesture.

 

“My apologies. You can perceive my emotional compromise. I have been unable to meditate for a number of days.”

 

“Is the captain well?”

 

“The captain is not the source of my questions,” Spock says, which is true only at a stretch, but that need not be evident. His counterpart does not speak, and Spock relents: “I left his residence recently. He is in fair health, although still deeply troubled by his experiences and their physical consequences.” The elder’s shoulders relax infinitesimally. Spock wonders if the other man feels the same, unnerved by his own transparency, or if his age and experience has made him impervious to such unease.

 

“Speak, my young friend,” Spock says, and his voice is so gentle that Spock cannot feel the customary distaste at such an address.

 

“I am curious about your relationship with Nyota,” he says.

 

“Lieutenant Uhura was one of my closest friends aboard the _Enterprise_ ,” the elder says, lifting his head and allowing his eye contact to break. He becomes momentarily distant. “Even before Jim, she was open to the idea of a friendship with a man as foreign as I was then. Her extensive knowledge of alien species simplified my interactions with her. She did not request clarification, did not require emotional proclamations or gestures—and, naturally, we were able to communicate with one another to hone our linguistic abilities. As our relationship matured, we participated in musical endeavors together. She often asked me to accompany her on shore leave, and she was often the first to perceive when I was unwell.”

 

His tone is warm, conscientious, even slightly rambling. But as he speaks, Spock feels an increasing chill.

 

“You were not romantically involved with her,” he says quietly.

 

“No,” the elder Spock responds. “I think perhaps she desired more intimacy from me, but I was uninterested. You must remember, Spock, I did not encounter her until later in my life.”

 

“I see,” Spock says. As much as he does not wish to see, he does. He will not become the man his elder counterpart is, but nevertheless there are aspects of the man he wishes to cultivate—the humor, the warmth that come with confidence. They are comfortable. This means some acknowledgement of the choices his counterpart had made. Some acknowledgement of their correctness, their own desirability. And surely taking a partner is among one’s most defining choices.

 

“Spock,” the elder says in a voice that scolds, and he feels a rebellious anger he had often encountered upon meeting with his father’s disapproval. “The circumstances under which you have cultivated this relationship are ones I never encountered. Allow me to be frank: I am envious of your relationship with the lieutenant. I had little experience in relationships in my own reality, and I wish that I had done more to cultivate them.”

 

In this moment beyond all others, Spock wishes that he could not hear the words his counterpart is not speaking. He wishes he could not read the man, wishes that he had never started this conversation, his second critical error of the day. Because he hears. He hears that the elder Spock has almost said the word _before_.

 

_I had little experience in relationships, before. I wish that I had done more to cultivate them, before._

 

He should not continue this conversation, should not follow this thread. He knows he should not. But rarely is his counterpart so forthcoming, and perhaps there is something worth following.

 

“You believe that it would have been beneficial to have more experience in relationships,” Spock prompts, “because later in life, you entered one and were unprepared.”

 

“Yes,” the elder says firmly. “Whether or not your path follows mine, the self-work you have done and the emotional experiences you have cultivated with Nyota will do you good. My inexperience was a great source of difficulty for me.”

 

“In the relationship that defined you,” Spock says softly, and again he experiences a physiological sensation that he knows is sourced from his unbridled emotions. It is a feeling like a live current running through his body; a shiver caused by a deep and unexpected chill; a wave of sensation that sets all his nerves on edge. As if he is waking after a long sleep. The elder Spock’s eyes have widened; he knows what his younger self has gleaned, and his own emotions are a tumble and a mess that Spock cannot untangle. But Spock will finish. He must finish. “The Captain.”

 

Something like grief surfaces from the storm of his elder counterpart’s well-lined face. He turns his head away. “I should never have accepted your comm,” he says. “You should have had the privilege of coming to this conclusion on your own.” There are tears in the old man’s eyes. Somehow, Spock is able to feel his shock deepen at seeing this. “I am sorry, Spock. It has never been my wish to shape you to become more like me. I admire who you are.”

 

There is something cold and broken in Spock’s voice when he responds. “I do not admire myself,” he croaks, because as much as he may wish to deny it, the privilege his counterpart speaks of has not been robbed from him. Somehow, on some level, he has been aware of that reality for a long time, and that is even more shameful than what the elder Spock has just done. “I have been denying my instincts, my better nature, the very parts of myself our mother always wished me to cultivate.” And he has hurt Nyota in the process. He could meditate for weeks on end and not recover from the inevitability of this outcome.

 

“One day, perhaps,” his counterpart says, “I will tell you stories of our mother. But today I am too ashamed to think of her. Goodbye.” The screen blinks to darkness. His counterpart has never been the one to initiate the end of a call before.

 

Spock remains in front of his console for a long time, sitting perfectly still, because when he moves, he is not certain what to do.


	4. four.

The last day before Nyota’s building is due to reopen, she returns late at night, after Spock has retired. He thinks of raising his voice to greet her, to alert her to his wakefulness, but chooses not to: she is still angry. She hasn’t entered the room but he can hear her bare feet on the floor. She makes no effort to soften her step. Either she is deliberately ignoring her habits—which are geared toward minimizing disturbances to Spock’s sleep—or she is aware that he is still awake.

 

He wonders if she has spoken to Jim. That had been the topic of their most recent conversation, but it had ended badly, her voice raised and his just quiet enough to upset her again. He cannot predict the outcome of that conversation, but his concern will not affect the outcome.

 

He listens to sounds he used to find intensely soothing: the unzipping of her tall boots, the slide of fabric as she pulls her tunic over her head, the gentle skritching of a brush moving through her hair. Then sounds he has always dreaded: a sigh, the rasp of skin as she rubs a hand across her face.

 

He lies still, on his side facing the bedroom door with his eyes open, and when she enters the room she sets a hand on the side of his head briefly, fingers brushing into his hair. She does this as if intending it to be a comfort. He feels confusion, guilt. Through the delicate skin of her fingers he feels a frustrated buzz of thought: she has kept herself busy, he understands through the white noise, instead of contemplating her feelings. She has not spoken to Jim, or at least, he does not see the memory of brightness in that flash of her mind. She slides into the bed beside him and lies on her back. She does not make another move to touch.

 

He performs a series of meditative mental exercises: a visualization of the crooked slopes of Mount Seleya, a series of mathematical exercises, a simulated game of chess against an invisible opponent whose moves grow exceedingly unexpected as his mind veers closer to sleep. The chaos reminds him of Jim, and then for a moment he reverts to the first, soothing exercise. He is back on Mount Seleya, and Jim with him, the sun in his hair, a fierce smile on his face, and finally Spock’s mind and body unite in quietude. He sleeps.

 

When he wakes, Nyota is sitting upright on the edge of his bed. She is performing a nervous gesture, a bouncing of one leg, which has shaken the mattress enough to wake him. Through the open door, he can see enough light in the living room to surmise it is past dawn. Sufficient.

 

“What is it?” he asks. She jolts, stops bouncing, turns back to him.

 

“I just got a message from Len. Jim’s back in the hospital.”

 

He sits up, dismisses his body’s weariness, and moves toward the wardrobe, deftly selecting the gray outfit he wore during much of Jim’s time in the emergency ward. He finds the clothing is formal enough that the hospital staff members are inclined to listen to him, but comfortable enough for long wear. Behind him, Nyota makes a soft sound in her throat. It serves no clear communicative purpose, and so he does not acknowledge it.

 

“Did the doctor specify the reason for the captain’s readmission?”

 

“Not to me. Privacy laws, I’m sure. But he might have told you, since you’re on Jim’s medical advisory team.” She stands from the bed and rifles through her own case in the corner, discarding several items of clothing to the floor. “Just said he’d been readmitted during the night; he knew we’d want to know. We should stop and bring Len something to eat, or at least some tea.”

 

Spock finishes dressing and gathers his communicator, which has its own message, but with no more information than Nyota had indicated. She is dressing more slowly, so: “I will prepare a flask,” he says. “Shall I brew enough for you?”

 

“Are you preparing Jim’s blend? I’d love some. Once we figure out what’s going on, I’ll make a run for something caffeinated.”

 

When he presses a flask into her hand a few minutes later, she murmurs a thank you, but beyond that they say nothing to one another until they reach the hospital.

 

Doctor McCoy is sitting in the lobby of the rehabilitative wing, his head in his hands. Nyota approaches him, setting a hand on his shoulder and proffering the tea when he looks up. His eyes are bloodshot but show no signs of edema. Fatigued, but not grief-sick, not mournful.

 

“He’s upstairs for scanning right now,” McCoy says, and Nyota curls up into the chair at his side. Spock remains standing. “I don’t think anything is seriously wrong with him, physically, but emotionally he’s a wreck, which is why I called you.” So McCoy is unaware that Nyota has been quietly avoiding Jim for days. That is comforting, in a way: their domestic spectacle has not made its way into gossip among their friends. And now Nyota radiates guilt, and Spock thinks, perhaps this will help. Perhaps seeing him hurt, she will understand that he needs care, and understand why Spock is the one to offer it to him.

 

“What was the stated reason for his readmission?” he asks.

 

“I was over to do my weekly workup and he started having these full-body tremors. They continued at intervals for more than twenty minutes, so I brought him in. Could’ve been almost anything—stress, physical fatigue, side effect of the migraine cocktail we’ve got him on, you name it. But it was too persistent for comfort, and you know tricorders are shit at navigating the intricacies of brain activity. By the time we got here, though, it had stopped. We ended up just sedating him and keeping him on monitor until the non-emergency scanning staff got in this morning. They’re ruling out neuro disorders right now.”

 

“You don’t think it’s anything serious?”

 

“Probably adrenaline, to be honest. Jim gets pretty worked up about all this medical stuff, and he’d forgotten I was coming last night, so it took him by surprise. But he insisted I stay, and I think he was probably just quietly panicking the whole time I was there until it got too much for him. I should’ve eased into it, but I thought I could get it over with, so I was just scanning and asking questions and trying to go as fast as I could and get out of his hair.” He grimaces.

 

Nyota puts a hand on the doctor’s shoulder, her expression tender. “I’m so sorry,” she says. “I know this has been a strain on your friendship with him, and I know how close you are. Are you thinking about stepping back? I’m sure Doctor Boyce could take on these check-ins until we get closer to launch.”

 

“I can’t,” McCoy answers, and Spock can see the gray weariness in his face. “If we’re going to be shipping out for five years, I can’t risk there being something about Jim’s condition that Boyce knows and I don’t. I think it’ll be better once we’re aboard the ship.” He chuckles. “Never thought you’d hear me say that, huh?” Nyota smiles sadly with him, her fingers momentarily squeezing on his shoulder.

 

Bones pages upstairs for an ETA—ten or fifteen minutes—and then Nyota leaves to find caffeine and Spock is still standing. McCoy looks up at him wordlessly.

 

“You do not appear well, Doctor,” he says, aware that this statement is taboo among humans but further aware that it is sometimes desirable to know when one’s fatigue is externally perceptible.

 

“Well spotted,” McCoy answers drily, and looks away for a moment. “I’m so tired of this, Spock. He doesn’t deserve this shit, and I keep thinking I can do something to fix it and I keep being wrong.”

 

“I echo your sentiment.”

 

“Sentiment, Spock?”

 

“Indeed.”

 

The scans find no signs of brain damage or epileptic activity. Jim experiences normal nerve and muscle reactions to both the standard and advanced stimulus testing. There is evidence of heightened cortisol over a prolonged period, but Doctor McCoy simply snorts and nods at that report.

 

Jim is settled into another white bed in another white room, and Nyota returns with a tall white cup of steaming coffee, and then a doctor enters the room. McCoy identifies him as the man who had supervised the scans. He says, “My preliminary recommendations were for an SSRI scrip and increase in physical activity, but the patient indicated—”

 

“The patient is right here, and his chart indicates both the desire to avoid both of those avenues and the _very_ logical reasons behind his desire,” Jim says shortly.

 

McCoy’s eyes flicker to Spock, and then he dismisses the other doctor with more tact than Spock expects. Jim’s shoulders visibly slump in relief as the door closes behind the man. “I’m sorry,” McCoy says, “I know Greely, I should have known he’d ignore my chart. Next time I’ll request Doctor Lunsinger; she’s exceptionally competent and far more open to non-standard treatment paths.”

 

“I was hoping you wouldn’t say _next time_ ,” Jim says.

 

“Well, unless we can find a way to get your cortisol back to normal—”

 

“Normal?” Jim says, and it seems as if he is teasing the doctor now.

 

“Normal for _you_ , at least, and maybe better—you know the advancements we’ve seen on your charts since this started, I’m not ruling out hope that we can come out of this counting it as a win.”

 

“Yeah,” Jim says, and his eyes flicker to Spock and Nyota. “Stop hovering, you guys. Grab a seat.” He looks uncertain for a moment. “I mean, if you’re staying.”

 

“Of course.” Nyota pulls in two smooth white chairs from the hallway and sits in one. “How long are you keeping him?” She’s eyeing McCoy and pressing her lips together. Spock recognizes discomfort.

 

“Probably just overnight,” the doctor answers. “Are you good without me, Jimmy?”

 

“Yeah, I’m fine. Get some sleep, Bones.”

 

McCoy brushes a hand through Jim’s hair, a gesture Spock reads as exceedingly intimate judging by the slight flush of the captain’s cheeks. He leaves, closing the door behind him, and Spock lets his eyes flicker from Nyota to the empty chair beside her. He wants to pull the chair closer to the bedside, to take his captain’s hand and provide firm reassurances. He absolutely cannot do so.

 

He sits. “So here we are again,” Jim says. His face has paled again now that McCoy has gone, perhaps in lieu of an effort to maintain a façade of normalcy. “I’m sorry to interrupt your morning like this. I know it’s not my fault,” he says hastily, precluding the admonition to that effect that he is clearly aware Spock was about to deliver. “I told Bones not to call you, though, and he said he was pretty sure you’d both kill him if you found out from anyone other than him.”

 

“An overdramatic assessment,” Spock says at the same time as Nyota laughs, “Damn right.” The corner of her mouth quirks up as she looks sideways at him.

 

“So I mean, you don’t have to stay,” Jim says. “Maybe we can get together when they release me tomorrow? Or are you on duty?”

 

“No, we’re staying,” Nyota answers firmly. “If you want to sleep, we can go, but if we’re not bothering you…” She clears her throat. “This is where we want to be.”

 

“I’m not tired,” Jim says quietly.

 

“If you wish,” Spock says, “I have another story to relate.”

 

“About Pike?” Jim’s face lights up, and Spock regrets that he had not offered this sooner. He has considered it often, over the past week, but he has been waiting for a sense of finality. For what his mother would have called “the right moment,” a concept Spock rejects intellectually but has found himself waiting for recently in more situations than just this one.

 

This is not “the right moment,” but it will do.

 

***

 

_The second time, the locals said the captain had been stung by an insect. Spock suspected sabotage—poison, most likely—but Pike was fully paralyzed and unable to speak. It had not been until the doctor suggested certainty would speed recovery as well as diplomacy that Spock had resolved to initiate a meld._

__

 

_Particularly considering his captain’s dislike of mind melding, spoken aloud on the prior occasion, Spock found the idea of initiating a meld without the ability to gain consent distasteful and disrespectful. But if the captain’s life could be at stake, some dignity was surely a worthy sacrifice._

__

 

 _The meld had been established for approximately one hundred and fifteen seconds before Pike’s frustrated mind was able to calm down enough to convey the thoughts and memories to Spock simply. First, words:_ I didn’t drink the nectar they offered, and then… _An image of the chalice being flung into Pike’s face, a sensation of heavy liquid drenching his skin. An image of the locals wiping it off with chirping apologies. A sensation, or rather, a lack thereof: his face was already numb. He’d pressed the comm badge but had been unable to say anything._

__

 

_By the time they’d beamed him up, he could feel the itching, buzzing sensation spreading down past his belly. By the time he’d reached the medbay, his whole body was frozen._

__

 

_They’d spoken of it after Pike had recovered. “I know that wasn’t your preference,” Pike said. “I could feel your discomfort through the meld. I want you to know that you always have my permission, Spock, when it comes down to the wire. I don’t like it. I’d rather not use it unless we need to. But when we do need to, it’s just another tool that you have at your disposal. And I’d rather you use it than stand by. Do you understand?”_

__

 

_“Yes, Captain,” Spock said. “I am gratified that you see it that way. Nevertheless, your first analysis of the meld, on the previous occasion we attempted it, was accurate. It is an intimate means of communication. Furthermore, it can be dangerous. This is why it is considered a serious breach of decorum to initiate it without mutual consent and awareness.”_

__

 

_“Understood,” Pike said. “But Mr. Spock—I was going mad trapped in my own head without being able to tell you what was going on. Will you allow me to thank you?”_

__

 

_“Negative, Captain,” Spock said. “No thanks are in order.”_

__

 

 __  
***

 

They leave the hospital after lunch, when Doctor Boyce has arrived and Jim has promised to comm them if anything changes. Nyota has arranged to pick him up in the morning, and Spock imagines they will frequent a tea house or similar establishment. He imagines their conversation will be quiet. He imagines Jim’s face will contort in painful earnestness, that Nyota will raise a hand to cut him off midphrase. He cannot imagine what they will say.

 

He is absorbed in his efforts to predict the outcome of this future conversation, a prediction whose accuracy he knows he will likely never confirm, when Nyota speaks softly from his side.

 

“I understand how important this is to you,” she says, “and I’m not sure if I did before, which is silly. I’m a communications officer. It’s my job to read between the lines.” She looks at him, and he meets her eyes. He is uncertain what, if anything, he is expressing with his face and posture. This lack of self-awareness is unsettling.

 

“I do not understand,” he says. They are entering her building. The lights have been restored, and by the time she responds, the lift doors have opened to her floor.

 

“I know,” she says. He follows her to her door, watches her fingers as she unlocks it: her movements are steady, but he feels unnerved, as if there are signals he cannot identify telling him that he is about to be witness to something. She slides through her door, making no indication that she has spent more than a week away from this unit, no sigh, no lingering glance around. He follows her to the carpeted floor, where they sit together, facing one another cross-legged.

 

“When you’re telling these stories,” she says quietly, “I always feel like an outsider. All your gestures, all your clarifications, everything is for Jim. And today, as you were talking about the meld with Pike, I was watching, and I realized what it reminds me of. And I realized what this is, and why I've been feeling the way I've been feeling. I've been trying to ignore it or deny it, subconsciously, I know that now. And I think you have too.”

 

Spock knows, abruptly, what this moment is.

 

“You love him,” Nyota says, a gentle accusation. “You’re in love with him. Aren’t you?”

 

Spock finds that his heart rate has changed. Without thinking he begins to breathe evenly, but shallowly, as he does when attempting to enter a meditative state. He can store none of this experience, though. Can analyze none of it. He feels as though the part of him that is Vulcan has been stripped away, as if the human part of him is suddenly alone and raw. Nyota is sitting before him, her body straight and tall, her hair slightly mussed, strands lifted by static electricity. He knows that she has asked him a question, but it is a question he cannot answer.

 

She waits for several seconds, then speaks again. “Do you need…?” Her voice wavers and breaks. There: there is her own emotion, her humanity, also raw and alone. Her lower lip trembles, and she continues. “Do you need me out of the way?”

 

Spock has not imagined this conversation, and he realizes that in neglecting this possibility he has underestimated Nyota, and all that she is. He has never imagined that she could find out the secret he has uncovered within himself. He has never imagined that she would discover this at all. He has certainly never imagined that she could _ask_ him for the truth. And because he has not predicted her intuition, her honesty, her love, and her compassion, blending in this way, he is not aware that the answer to this question is already on his lips.

 

“There is nothing now,” he says. His mouth feels dry, although he is properly hydrated. “There is… I am not seeking…” She has bitten her lower lip, looking at him with what he thinks might be pity, and he cannot lie but he must continue. “No. I do not. I cannot wish.” What words is he missing? These are fragments, meaningless on their own, and he owes her more than this.

 

But although he has expressed to clear thought, Nyota leans her body forward and wraps her arms around him. He hears, although it is involuntary, that he makes a small, incoherent noise at this contact. Her shoulders tremble, and she pulls back.

 

“It makes sense now,” she says. “It’s stupid, but I feel better knowing… that there’s a reason. That there’s something. I’ve suspected for a long time, even before he died, but…”

 

“Nyota, please do not speak of that.”

 

She purses her lips. Sympathy again, he thinks. “Have you spoken to anyone?” she asks. He tilts his head. “There are counselors… I saw someone, for a while. But I ended up talking about you.” She sets her hands on the floor and presses herself to standing, then paces slowly across the room, her words tempered and unemotional. “She told me she thought I would be healthier if I terminated my relationship with you. That was the day before you suggested I go to Nairobi.” She turns back to look at him. “You love me, too, don’t you?”

 

“I do,” he whispers.

 

“Do you want to continue…?”

 

“Do you?”

 

Nyota takes a deep breath and sits again. “I think we should seek some emotional distance. I don’t think… I can’t continue to cultivate this as a long-term interest.” She presses her face into both of her hands.

 

“I understand.” Spock answers. “Shall we discuss parameters?”

 

“No,” she says, and then shakes her head and lifts it from her hands again. “Yes. We should. I just. This is hard.”

 

“There is no need to change anything at present.”

 

“It’s already changed, Spock. We’ve just been pretending it hasn’t.” She sighs. “Look, I think we should take it back to the start. We can be involved, but we can’t be exclusive, because if we are…”

 

“Yes?”

 

“If we are, I’m always going to be wondering when you’re going to come to me for permission. To do something outside the boundaries of monogamy. To… touch someone. Him, I mean. Or kiss him, or pursue him somehow. And it’s going to kill me.” She looks at him pleadingly. “But I don’t mean… I don’t mean you shouldn’t talk to me about it, when it happens? Does that make sense?”

 

It does. He wishes it did not. This should not feel clean, after two years of romantic involvement. It should not feel natural, when his emotions are still at work so deeply and inexorably. “I understand,” he answers, “but your certainty that such a thing will occur is unsettling to me. I do not share it.”

 

She looks at him then, her eyes dark and hard, and speaks softly. “Either way,” she says, “eventually you’re going to need to move on, to admit to yourself this relationship isn’t what you want. And when you do… I need to be far enough away by then that it doesn’t hurt.”

 

 _It should hurt,_ Spock thinks, but he does not say it.


	5. five.

The teahouse is quiet. The steady flow of hospital staff and orange-vested construction workers has ebbed until the front counter empties and the cashier begins to busy himself with the displays. The few occupied tables are inhabited by solitary figures, their eyes glued to their PADDs.

 

Jim and Nyota are the exception, but for a long time they're quiet, too. They sit in a semicircular booth at the teahouse's edge, its open side facing the weak forcefield that has, at least temporarily, taken the place of a huge glass window. Outside it is blustery and bright. Inside the only sound is the clink of ceramic, the pacing steps of the cashier, the occasional splash of water poured from pot to teacup.

 

Jim's determined to be the one to break the silence, but he can only think of one question, and it seems selfish to ask—almost cruel. Eventually, when it becomes clear his brain isn't going to supply an appropriate consolation or a cheeky catchphrase, he gives in.

 

"I promised myself I wouldn't ask," he says, "but is this my fault?"

 

Nyota’s eyes are steady on him, but for a moment her lip trembles. "Do you think I would have been there this morning if I thought it was?"

 

"I dunno," he answers, letting his eyes flicker away. "I think maybe you would. I guess you'd be yelling at me by now if that was the case, though." He takes a sip of his lukewarm tea, clinks it down onto his saucer, and puts his head in his hands. "It feels like I drove him to this, maybe. By pushing too hard. But I didn't know what I was pushing. I didn't want this."

 

She doesn't answer, and when he looks up from his hands her eyes are dark and hard. He tries to translate the silence. Nyota hadn't said they'd broken up, just that they were getting some distance; maybe he's taking this too seriously? Then he thinks about what he's just said; _I didn't want this_ ; what it implies: was that a disclaimer he needed to make? If he hadn't said it, would she think he _did_ want it?

 

She reaches across the table and tugs his hand down, laces her fingers through his. "I know you think we were good together," she says, "but really, Jim, this is a good thing. I didn't know it wasn't working. I'd rather have figured it out now than let it drag on for years."

 

"But you would have, wouldn't you?" he presses. "You loved him. Really loved him."

 

"You know I did. You better than anyone." She presses her lips together, and he watches her carefully. The way she blinks deliberately, and the slight bob of her head as she speaks, the rueful tilt to her mouth and her thumb rubbing soothingly against his knuckles. The past tense he used, _loved_ , is harsh, but she hadn’t corrected him even though he’s sure she still loves him.

 

He does know better than anyone. He's never even had to ask.

 

She continues, "I know you need us now, that you need him. I mean, I know he's going to help you, and I don't mean he's going to try. As much as he may talk up his Vulcan stoicism, he understands emotions better than most people I know. He can really help you, so I want you to let him."

 

"Of course," Jim says.

 

"But he needs you, too," she finishes, her voice taking on a pleading tone. "Please don't forget that. He's always had trouble letting people in, but lately you've been worse than he has. Don't shut him out."

 

Jim looks down at the table. "You're talking to me as if you're passing on a torch, Nyota," he says quietly. "Is that what you think is happening here? Because I'm not..."

 

"I'm not presuming anything," she says, and then smiles a little, sadly, and says, "Well. Not much." For a while, he can't answer. She looks down, too, and unlaces their hands. She spins her empty teacup on its saucer: it makes a slight ringing noise, and she stops it quickly with a touch of her fingers. They sit in silence again.

 

"Credit for your thoughts," she whispers.

 

"I'm scared," he says, and tries to smile, but he knows Nyota, and she knows him, and she sees right through it.

 

* * *

 

By noon, Spock is contemplating an additional meditation session. Although logically he knows that there have been no temporal anomalies, the morning has felt interminable, and restrictively so. He has been engaged in meaningful work for six-point-two-five standard hours, yet each task has seemed to bring him no closer to the day's resolution.

 

He had returned to several practices that had been habitual in the days before Khan. After his first productive meditation session in days, he had performed a serious of aerobic exercises and activities, resulting in a feeling of increased physical wellbeing and energy. Following that, he had changed into uniform slacks and his black undershirt, then visited the temporary market set up under lines of crude tents on the sidewalks near Alta Plaza.

 

The market was overcrowded, and ultimately Spock succeeded only in purchasing a bag full of vegetables, and not, as he had intended, the other necessities he had listed for himself the day prior: rice, naval oranges, cooking oils, vegetable broth, curry paste. Passing through the throngs of shoppers, he was overwhelmed by the wild rush of their emotions—the raised voices, the brush of other bodies against his own as they passed. It would not do to remain longer, even for the sake of completing his list.

 

Now he is attempting to calculate public-transportation yield expectations for the post-disaster city, adjusting infrastructure for the recovery plan based on varied estimates. It is difficult to determine how many former residents will return, and how many neighborhoods will remain depleted even once their utilities are returned and the dangers of radiation dispersed. He finds the uncertainty unsettling.

 

And there is another uncertainty—one he has been attempting to avoid. He is unable to functionally reconstruct a model of the conversation that Jim and Nyota had scheduled for this morning. His imagination and predictive character constructs are not sufficient to predict any of the possible outcomes with any statistical relevance. He has been telling himself that it is illogical to feel anxiety about the emotional states that will result from the conversation, but even as he reminds himself of this once again, he is conscious of a possible rationalization. These two individuals, both humans with intense emotional lives, are his closest companions. Their psychological states therefore have significant impact on his own.

 

Rationalizing his own emotional impulses is illogical.

 

It is illogical, too, for his heartbeat to quicken when his personal comm chimes. It is illogical for his comm to chime at all; he has always chosen to leave it on a vibratory setting rather than activating the volume. Yet this morning he had turned it to its highest-volume setting. There is no logical reason to deny that this is the reason. As an exercise in control, he forces himself to ignore the incoming message for five standard minutes, then, calmed somewhat, lifts it and examines the short message.

 

Capt. Kirk: _Can I come over?_

 

_You are welcome to join me in my residence. I am also amenable to an alternative meeting place, if that is your preference._

 

Capt. Kirk: _No, your place is great, I'll be there in ten._

 

Spock is aware that contextually, Jim’s use of the adjective “great” is indicating the location’s suitability, not its quality. However, he follows the natural progression of his thought as though he had misunderstood: he looks around his apartment. It seems to tell so little of him, and those parts it does tell are human. Paintings and furniture his mother had assisted him in buying; the chess board he has left out with the intention of encouraging Jim to play; dozens of human books on a simple shelf in the corner of the room. Everything else is regulation: a comm screen, empty kitchen counters, a silver kettle, a synthetizer. In his sleeping room, a neatly stocked wardrobe with its door closed, a carefully made bed with gray sheets and a gray blanket folded up at its foot. In his living space, tint windows with no curtains, and no adornments atop the shelving units.

 

He resolves to find items to represent his Vulcan heritage. Perhaps he can find an artistic representation of Mount Seleya.

 

He is attempting to occupy his mind again, he recognizes. This is frustrating in its inefficiency. There are larger tasks at hand. His captain’s future aboard the _Enterprise_ is at stake. He cannot allow his own comfort and needs to take the foreground. He will begin immediately his efforts to improve Jim's psychological wellbeing. He decreases the temperature, fills the teakettle with water and sets it to boil, retrieves the blanket from his room and drapes it across the arm of the couch near which Jim usually sits.

 

He is changing into more casual clothing, an untextured blue tunic somewhat more muted than the standard sciences uniform, when the console beeps. “Allow entry,” he tells the computer, and only then does it occur to him that each of these gestures would be comforting to Nyota, also. And yet he has never taken these steps for her.

 

He waits for her arrival before beginning to prepare drinks. He does not change clothing for her, with the exception of dressing in a manner he knows she finds attractive when they attend social outings. He only changes the temperate or fetches a blanket upon her request. When she requests entry, even when her arrival is anticipated, he follows the same steps as he does with any other visitor: he requests identity confirmation from the computer before instructing the computer to allow entry.

 

The revelation is strange. It is desirable, in that it provides confirmation of that which Nyota has repeatedly suggested: the depth of his feeling for Jim. It is undesirable in that his first instinct is to remember this realization in its entirety for the express purpose of relating it to his mother. Briefly, brightly, he feels certainty that she will express pleasure at this: perhaps clap her hands, and certainly smile so widely that her teeth will show, a facial expression so human it had once made him uncomfortable. She will be gladdened, both by his experience and his choice to share it with her, although she will comment only on the former.

 

The moment is over as quickly as it came, and at the same instant Spock hears a hesitant knock at his door. He stiffens, closes his eyes briefly and allows himself a steadying breath, then says, “Enter.”

 

When he turns, Jim is standing in the entrance to the kitchen. His physical presence suggests uneasiness, his shoulders high and his hands in his pockets. He tilts his head at Spock, as if asking a question.

 

Spock sighs. “Speak your mind, Jim,” he says.

 

Jim chuckles, ducking his head and scuffing his foot on the pristine floor. “Easier said than done,” he says. “I don’t really know what to say, Spock. I could offer my sympathy, but that doesn't seem quite right. I mean, at least, Nyota said she thinks this is for the best, and that you guys are still going to see each other, just more casually.”

 

“Nyota is correct, as are you: sympathy is not appropriate. However, I appreciate your sentiment.”

 

“It’s a big change,” Jim says, “and I know neither of you took it lightly, but Spock… did you know this was coming?”

 

“I believe the human saying about hindsight applies in this instance,” he says. “In retrospect, the reasons for the change in our relationship status, and the significance of those reasons, seem regrettably obvious.”

 

He breaks eye contact, and they are silent for a moment. It is uncomfortable. Jim senses that: “Tea?” he asks, pulling his hands from his pocket and gesturing at the kettle. “I could do with a cup of your blend, if you have extra.”

 

“Regrettable, I have depleted my supply.”

 

“Oh,” Jim says, clearly surprised. “I mean, that’s cool, I guess, because I take it that means you liked it?”

 

“It was superlative, Jim. Certainly it ranked among the most pleasant herbal blends I have experienced. My apologies if I had not properly expressed this to you before.”

 

Jim flushes and looks pleased. “I'll make you more,” he says. “I still have the ingredients.”

 

“You are most generous. Alternatively, if you wish to experiment, I would not be averse to sampling a new blend. Your mastery of flavor balance is remarkable.”

 

“Spock’s Blend 2.0?” Jim suggests with a grin. “You got it. Any special requests?”

 

“None whatsoever,” Spock answers. “Meanwhile, you are free to peruse my selection and choose one of the inferior yet aromatic varieties I have curated.” He opens a cupboard and Jim lifts onto his toes to examine the selection. “I believe they include a Terran citrus herbal, an Andorian musk tea, and—just there—a tin of loose Vulcan spice tea.”

 

“I’d love to try the spice tea, but—” He winces, and Spock almost steps forward, misinterpreting the expression as one of pain. “—are you saving it? I’m sure it’s not easy to find anymore, and probably expensive…”

 

“I can think of no one with whom I would rather share my supply, Jim,” Spock says firmly, and Jim’s smile is broad and brilliant.

 

Once the tea has steeped, they sit together and speak of its flavors. Jim’s eyelids flutter when he sips, his expression calm and reverent, and Spock allows himself the indulgence of watching.

 

Jim does not offer information about his conversation with Nyota, and Spock cannot find a reasonable inquiry. He sets aside his curiosity, then briefly reexamines it long enough to determine that he can glean some information without intrusion. Jim’s manner is stressed, but not emotionally overwrought. It is therefore unlikely that he and Nyota had fought. From his earlier hesitance, his confession of a quashed impulse to offer sympathy, Jim seems understanding.

 

He does not understand.

 

“If you’re willing,” Jim says hesitantly once they have both finished their tea in silence, “The last time you told me about melding with Pike—the Hn’hat’hru incident, with the nectar—I got the impression that wasn’t the end of the story.”

 

“Perceptive and correct,” Spock says. “I melded with Christopher Pike a third time during his captaincy.”

 

***

 

The third time, the psi-centered creatures they encountered were far too powerful to come into contact with Chris Pike’s mind directly. Without an intermediary, they would have caused the mind of a psi-null species incredible pain. So Spock had initiated a light but strenuous meld: with his left hand, he touched his captain’s face; with his right, the Denebian emissary’s. His job was to shuttle their thoughts across his own mind.

 

The Denebians were nonverbal, but their psi abilities were very powerful. Even in Spock’s mind, there was a keening behind the language that passed through, and five minutes into the meld Spock had felt blood in his ear, tasted it in his mouth trickling down the back of his throat from his nose. He had kept this information private from Chris, but the emissary had seen it in his mind and had been alarmed.

 

_Continue_ , Spock had insisted.

 

_You are an unsuitable vessel for our communications_

 

_I am all that you have_ , Spock had replied, attempting to bolster the strength of his words.

 

_You are responsible for your own infliction_. And then it had continued its explanations of the Denebians’ terms of trade.

 

“What was that, Spock?” Chris had asked, as the Denebian withdrew to commune with its fellows. “I heard—or felt, or whatever you’d like to call it—you had some back-and-forth without translation.”

 

“It was ascertaining the security of its communications,” Spock answered not untruthfully. “I have assured it that I am conveying the information to you appropriately and to the best of my ability.” From across the room, the Denebian conveyed a symbol that would have been a derisive snort in a verbal language. Spock could not keep the wince from his face. Before he was fully aware of what was happening, Pike had summoned Doctor Boyce, who had touched the light inner curl of Spock’s ear without consent. Spock withdrew, but there were droplets of greenish blood on Boyce’s fingertips and dual looks of alarm from both of his fellow senior officers.

 

“No,” Pike had said, and without further consult, had raised his voice across the room. “Pardon me, emissary, but our communication systems are incompatible. We will have to arrange an alternative—”

 

“Captain, I object,” Spock said through his teeth. “The negotiations are nearly complete. I have not sustained serious damage.”

 

“Your body thinks otherwise. You’re bleeding as if a pressure bomb just went off a few feet from you,” Boyce snarled.

 

“Allow me to follow that observation to its logical conclusion. Suppose that while we were on a planetside mission, a pressure bomb was detonated in close proximity to me. Supposed that symptoms such as I am experiencing now were the sole result. As I am not incapacitated, I would continue with my mission.”

 

“Without bothering to mention the pressure bomb to your captain?” Pike pressed, his voice thundering dark but quiet.

 

“That aspect of the scenario is not analogous, as there is no danger to any crewmember but myself.”

 

“But you could be about to step on another,” Pike said, his lips thinning. He looked aside at the Denebians and straightened somewhat, his shoulders and chin lifting. “Mister Spock, are you able to loosen the shielding between my mind and yours? Open a closer channel between us without loosening the shield between you and the emissary?”

 

_(“Brilliant,” Jim interrupts, grinning, and Spock can almost feel the waves coming off of his captain: the softness, the warmth, the fierce longing.)_

 

“I believe so, Captain. I am unclear what benefit you perceive from that arrangement, however.”

 

“Whether you perceive it or not, that’s my condition. I will agree to continue, Mister Spock, but I want to be able to judge your condition for myself. Since the health of your psi abilities can’t be analyzed by tricorder, I’ll monitor it as we speak.”

 

“My efficiency will be reduced by—”

 

“I don’t care. I won’t make it an order, Mister Spock, but I will make it an ultimatum. Let me monitor you, or I’m finding another way to finish the treaty.”

 

He had acquiesced. When they resumed, he touched first the Denebian’s face, then his captain’s, then gradually imagined drawing Chris’s mind closer to his own until he could feel (and hear and think and _feel_ ) rather than merely opening a channel. There would be no need now to shuttle the Denebian’s words onwards; Pike would sense them as Spock’s mind processed them, if their attentions were appropriately directed.

 

_My permission to test the security of this link_ , Spock conveyed to the emissary, who sent a high hum of agreement. _Captain, is this acceptable?_

 

_You’re in pain_ , Pike answered.

 

_Are you able to perceive my control of that pain?_

 

Pike’s mind answered yes, but grudgingly—an answer felt, not heard. He wished to deny it, wished to spare Spock, but he was captain and this was important (but not more important than Spock) (but the admiralty might not see it that way) (he’s bleeding) (we cannot fail) (I’m sorry, I’m trying to make this easy on you) (I’m sorry, Spock).

 

_Continue_ , Spock told the emissary.

 

After several minutes, Spock began to feel an enhancement to his pain-control centers. It was external to himself. _Pause_ , he conveyed, and then, _Captain, are you aware of what you are doing?_

 

_It was working, wasn’t it?_

 

_Yes. It should not be, but it is._

 

_What does that mean?_

 

_We can speak of this verbally when completed. Please concentrate on the emissary’s words. We can improve efficiency and shorten the duration for which this will be necessary._

 

_(“Are you telling me Pike never_ once _thought about sex while you were in his brain? Because I find that hard to believe,” Jim interrupts again._

__

 

_“I have not denied such a thing. It is impossible to convey to you every one of the thoughts I encountered while our minds were touched. I am choosing to convey that which seems most prurient.”_

__

 

_“It would give me great joy, Spock, if you could tell me outright that Admiral Pike thought about sex while you were in each other’s brains.”_

__

 

_“He did, Jim. He was also conscious of my own thoughts provoked by his own, which were naturally similar in nature.”_

__

 

_“Oh my god tell me you had an awkward conversation about it afterwards.”_

__

 

_“I will tell the story in the order I wish, captain.”_

__

 

_“Oh my god. Okay.”)_

 

Ten more minutes passed, and Doctor Boyce hovered at Pike’s side. “How is he?” he murmured, as if Spock can’t hear him, as if Spock didn’t have ultrasensitive hearing as well as a direct link into his captain’s brain.

 

The instinctive response was nonverbal, a burst of image and sound and color in Pike’s mind: a clattering like disorganized drums, _he’s fucking brilliant_ , this has to be over soon, I’m sorry I’m sorry, the deep blue of Spock’s shirt, fingers on each other’s shoulders, when he saved my ass at Nyla Prime and dozens of times and why can’t I save him back, why can’t I ever save them back. Then, out loud, Pike said, “Have your hypos prepared, we’re almost done,” and at Spock he thought, _I know you’re trying to shield it from me, stop it, don’t be an idiot, I can hear you trying. Stop it. That’s why I’m here, I want to be your friend, I want to help you, dammit dammit dammit I didn’t mean, I’m sorry._

 

_No need for apologies, Captain_ , and the Denebian emissary was somewhere between amusement and annoyance and Spock would not let him drift any further toward the latter. _Emissary, our standard reexamination period is five years. This can be updated in the case of an extraordinary change in needs or circumstances. Is this acceptable?_

 

_Yes. And when the time comes again to speak, we will find another way to communicate_ , the emissary said, and broke the link.

 

Spock collapsed onto the floor before he could finish closing the meld, and Chris fell with him. _No no no no Spock_ Chris was saying, and it felt so intimate that he held it briefly, a comfort, before his hand fell away, and the world with it.

 

When he returned to consciousness in Sickbay, Pike and Boyce were at the foot of his bed, their voices heated. “It wasn’t supposed to go that far,” Boyce said, and privately Spock agreed.

 

***

 

“Wait,” Jim says, “what about the explanation? For why the pain-thing worked? And what about the awkward conversation? I was promised awkward conversation.”

 

“I made no promises, Jim. It was my hope that the story’s conclusion would be satisfactory without sharing a mutually embarrassing anecdote.”

 

“That was a _sad_ ending, I want a _funny_ ending,” Jim whines.

 

***

 

“I know you’ve melded with humans before,” Captain Pike said, not meeting his eyes, “so you’re probably used to it, but I did want to apologize for the lapses in my concentration. The, ah, more egregious ones.”

 

“It is not unusual for such images to arise in mind melds that last longer than one minute. As we maintained some level of mental connection for twenty-one-point-three standard minutes, it is certainly to be expected that some of our everyday passing thoughts will have been transferred. Under no circumstances could I expect you to retain perfect control of your thoughts. I, however, should have been able to maintain at the very least professional thoughts, if not perfect control. So it is I who should be apologizing.”

 

The corner of Pike’s mouth quirked. “I suppose it’s logical of us to pretend we never saw anything, huh?”

 

“On the contrary, denial of knowledge that one possesses is the height of illogic.”

 

***

 

Spock wishes that he could meld with Jim as he relays the end of this anecdote. He believes his captain would enjoy experiencing the memory of Captain Pike’s facial expression.

 

***

 

Jim rises once the story is finished, fills the teakettle and sets it to boil, and withdraws the citrus tea that Spock had indicated earlier. “More for you, too?” he asks.

 

“Please.”

 

The silence that follows is unusually tense. When Jim settles beside him again, he passes over the second cup of tea but doesn’t make eye contact. Spock catalogues a rapid chain of emotions: anxiety, frustration, fear. “What is it?” he asks.

 

“I want to know why you’re telling me these stories,” Jim says. “Because that didn’t feel like the end, either.”

 

He is Jim Kirk. He is too perceptive, too sharp, too unready.

 

“You gain satisfaction from these stories,” Spock says, not a question but a statement of fact.

 

“Yes.”

 

“You find it cathartic to speak of the Admiral with me, and to learn more of his life.”

 

“I do.”

 

“Jim,” he says, and pauses, gathering himself. “I am not certain what I have done to upset you.”

 

“You’re winding up to something,” Jim says. “There’s a punch line, I can feel it. The way you tell these stories—it’s measured, deliberate. I can’t tell if it’s just that you’re teaching me about mind melds, or that you’re sharing Pike stories, or what. But you don’t… you don’t seem like a storytelling type. You’re good at it, don’t get me wrong, but there’s got to be a _point_ , and I can’t help but thinking I might not like it.” His cheeks and forehead have reddened. “Is it because of what happened when I was out? I told Bones I didn’t remember, but I was lying.”

 

“You are referring to the mind melds I initiated while you were unconscious,” Spock says. “Why would you lie to Doctor McCoy about your memories of them?”

 

Now Jim’s flush deepens. “I wanted them to be mine,” he answers. “Ours, I guess, but… I didn’t want to share them. As much as I wanted to talk to Bones about it—I know how he feels about melds, I wish he could understand, and I wanted to know more about what happened and why they allowed it…” He looks up, meets Spock’s eyes with his own. “But it was incredibly intimate. I mean, you know—you were on the other end of it—but it was like someone singing me to sleep.”

 

“Do you remember particulars?”

 

“In contrasts, mostly,” he answers. “I remember being very alone, and then suddenly not. And I remember you were there at the turning point for the pain. At the end, before I woke up, it was like you were fading in and out. I didn’t…” He hesitates and looks at Spock; his manner indicates he is performing an assessment, but apparently Spock passes, because Jim continues. “I didn’t know that I was alive, Spock. I know that my sense of awareness was pretty weak, but the meld must have lent me some measure of consciousness. Still, as far as I knew, this was all happening right after the warp core; this was me sensing you as I died. So I kept trying to latch onto you, but I was so weak, and clumsy. And I felt like… you were trying to tell me it was going to be okay.”

 

Spock is very glad that he had not been aware of this at the time, or withdrawing from the meld would have been exponentially more difficult.

 

“We were able to verify, in fact, that the act of melding assisted you in regaining consciousness,” Spock confirms. “Your brain activity would rise when our minds touched. This, along with my ability to analyze and amalgamate your pain reception, was the reason that the doctors allowed my intrusions.”

 

Jim winces. “Don’t call them that,” he says. “Spock, you saved my life.”

 

“In the process, I was witness to your mind, which was at the time uncontrolled and, on at least one occasion, unaware of my presence. I possess fragments of memories I doubt you would have shared with me voluntarily.”

 

Jim looks at him now, and Spock can see _something_ in his eyes, but cannot categorize it: hurt, or sadness, or regret? And he says, “I know you’d never ask me to, and I appreciate that. But I would share almost anything with you, Spock.”

 

And Spock wishes… he wishes to move closer to Jim right now. He wishes for Jim’s head to fall on his shoulder, for their hands to tangle between their bodies in the human gesture of intimacy. And he wishes to embrace him. To hold him. To show him something, although he cannot say what. His visualization provides him with a sense of confidence that these gestures would result in physical and emotional comfort. The words Jim has just spoken give him reason to believe that comfort would be mutual.

 

He does not, of course. Instead he feels frustration, intense and warm, a flush like embarrassment. He has done nothing. But he thinks to himself, the words tumbling over one another in a frantic rush, _No, no. I must take time to examine these feelings. I must allow meditation, consideration of consequences. I must not give in to instinctual, emotional urges. I must not jeopardize all that I have promised._

 

But he does extend one arm. He places the soft skin of his palm over Jim’s hand, which is gripping the edge of the couch. Jim is warm. The interface is enough—just enough—that Spock feels a light ripple of emotions. Surprise and pain and affection and frustration. And he feels guilt, and he knows it to be his own. And he feels uncertainty. In particular, he is not certain if this is the touch of which Nyota had spoken. Intimate enough that twenty-four hours ago, he would have felt the need to ask her for permission, or forgiveness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you SO MUCH to everyone who has commented, especially on the last couple chapters -- I keep coming back to them and rereading them to motivate me onward. ONWARD.


	6. six: interlude

_interlude_

 

Spock has always been able to rely on his sense of time. It is a Vulcan skill that often provides a source of amusement for his human companions, and so he indulges them by verbalizing his precise knowledge even at times it is unnecessary. Time is not a constant, but his sense of it has been, throughout his life. (It has been twenty-two years, fifty-nine days, six hours, and twelve minutes since he pressed his hand into the bristling fur on I-Chaya's neck and felt the exhalation that was his sehlat's last. Ten years, thirty days, and fifteen hours since he boarded a shuttle departing Vulcan with the destination of Starfleet Academy. One year, six months, eighteen days, nine hours, fifty-four minutes since he materialized onto a transporter platform and his mother did not.)

 

He finds his skills wavering when he attempts to measure the interval since he last saw his Captain. Six hours, twenty-three minutes? Six hours twenty-seven? He could examine the clock and make a calculation, but any human could do that. His sense of time, which has always been innate, has developed these intervals of uncertainty, slow and strange. Any Vulcan would direct him to a healer immediately. This is illness; this is damage worthy of concern. He is not reacting to this knowledge in an appropriate way.

 

As a scientist, Spock is aware that time is not a constant. It, and one's perception of it, can be affected by a variety of means, including gravity and extreme velocity. But on Earth, in his apartment twelve stories above the streets of San Francisco, sitting in the lotus pose and attempting to meditate, his sense of time should be reliable. At present, there is no reason that he should have the sensation of slowed time.

 

All of this is true. And yet, for weeks now, this disturbance has been present. It ebbs and fades entirely at times, but returns often enough to be a source of concern.

 

Precision requires a further elaboration, because within this exception there is another exception: the weeks move slowly for Spock, _except when he is in the presence of his captain_.

 

Jim spends a good deal of time in Spock’s apartment, and Spock in Jim’s, but the goal is recovery, not dependence. Spock does not encourage _lingering_. Many evenings in Jim’s flat, when they have worked late, Jim will offer Spock his couch. It is a sufficiently comfortable accommodation; he had learned this the night that Jim had returned home to find him in the lobby. Now, however, he rejects each offer as it comes. It doesn’t seem to bother Jim: he keeps offering, in any case. Spock, on the other hand, often berates himself as he walks home through the dark.

 

Were he to choose to stay, Spock knows, there are gestures he could make. He is certain that Jim would appreciate these gestures, and interpret them correctly as overtures of continued friendship. He could make a hot breakfast, to be ready when Jim woke. He could accompany Jim on errands that required little thought. He does none of these things. He walks home alone, gooseflesh rippling his arms despite the seasonably warm temperature and his long-sleeved tunic, his steps measured and echoing and his thoughts disordered.

 

It is as if he is lending Jim the order of his mind, gradually. Day after day they perform mind exercises, sensory immersions, anxiety-reduction techniques. They sit on foam mats side by side in one apartment or the other. They breathe deeply, and they speak slowly and openly to one another. Although he has not yet been able to reach a fully meditative state, Jim is improving. Spock is failing.

 

That is not the way of teaching. It is one of the great merits of education: knowledge passed on is doubled, rather than transferred; a teacher can offer a gift without losing anything. Yet Spock’s self-control, his sense of certainty, are fading as Jim’s rise back to life.

 

Furthermore, he is not always certain that the change should be characterized as negative. He thinks of his elder counterpart—the strangeness in him, the humanity—and concludes a sense of vulnerability is necessary, to be able to let oneself feel so deeply without being subsumed into a maelstrom of feeling. This, he thinks, is the beginning.

 

There is always another parry, another _“but—”_ flashing through his mind: he cannot, in this state, maintain his previous standard of effectiveness as a Starfleet officer, a First Officer, a scientist, an explorer. He also cannot be made to choose. So as surely as Jim’s, Spock’s time to regain his state of psychological equilibrium is running out.

 

Besides this undercurrent of change, one week is much like the next, and the next. Jim returns from the Riverside shipyard each Sunday night and joins Spock in his apartment. They drink a cup of tea, sometimes more than one, and talk about ship’s matters and ‘Fleet politics. Jim usually goes home long past midnight. The next day they rendezvous for several hours in the evening, usually beginning with dinner and transitioning to meditation and mindfulness practices. Spock often achieves at least one productive hour of meditation during this time.

 

Once or twice a week, Spock and Nyota meet for lunch. At times, they return to Spock’s apartment for a sexual encounter. More often, they walk in what is left of Starfleet Headquarters. Sometimes they speak to one another in Vulcan Standard—Nyota is fluent enough for easy conversation, but does not choose to moderate her emotions while she speaks Vulcan, which results in unusual intonations and the occasional need to translate an emotional term before her meaning can be understood. Their manner of being with one another has eased. Spock is certain she understands much more of his current and fragile state of being than he has shared with her. He appreciates that she does not say so.

 

On Wednesdays, Jim often comms Spock requesting his presence in the late afternoon. He is more easily upset after a workout, and his physical therapy requires a grueling afternoon routine, so often they engage in conversation designed to bring subconscious thoughts and negativity to the surface of Jim’s mind. His private nature results in attempts to remain vague in the thoughts he shares, which in turn results in a constant level of awareness: he is never fully able to relax, and occasionally he admits as much.

 

Much of the crew has Wednesday evening off, and Jim and Spock are both invited to social gatherings at a local bar on a regular basis. At times, they go together. Often they take turns socializing: one wanders among the throngs of crew members while the other sits quietly at their booth in the back. However, on other occasions, Spock chooses to stay home. On those nights, Jim always takes his leaving by saying that he intends to stop by and see the crew. Through various means, Spock has learned that on those nights, his captain rarely arrives. Sometimes Nyota messages Spock to ask if they’re coming an hour after Jim was due to have arrived. Sometimes Chekov mentions it has been two weeks since he saw the captain when the gathering occurred only two days prior. On one occasion, Spock had stayed home with the intention of reading a paper, then decided social interaction would more positively impact his professional life. He had arrived at the bar only half an hour after Jim should have arrived, but there was no sign of him, and Spock had felt obligated to present a “cover” for his captain when the crew asked after him.

 

Spock does not mention his awareness of Jim’s absences, and eventually finds it difficult not to answer sharply when Jim leaves Spock’s presence with a statement of intention Spock knows to be false. The façade is unsettling. The fact that Jim believes he needs a façade is even more so.

 

There are more activities: meetings with the reluctant Commander-Starfleet, Admiral Archer, or with the city-building council to discuss rebuilding proposals; chess games that span multiple days; one session of sparring that Jim leaves red-faced and angry for reasons Spock does not comprehend. It is a life Spock could acclimate to, and at times he must remind himself that there is no need. In fewer than six months, they will be back aboard the _Enterprise_.

 

There are other things that do not happen. Spock does not comm his counterpart, or answer when the ambassador comms him. He and Nyota do not speak of their relationship, or refer to it as such, and while by human standards their physical intimacy still implies a personal tie of some significance, Spock believes that they have attained the level of emotional distance Nyota desires. He does not accept invitations to gather with colleagues to discuss the upcoming semester. He does not request a teaching position, and to his surprise, the admiralty does not request he take such a post. He does not, either, seek out more adornments for his apartment, as he had several times resolved to do. He is not bothered by any of these things, although their absences are noted carefully.

 

It is late August. The leaves have turned early, already bearing leaves of burnished reds and sickly yellows. Each citizen has a weekly appointment for inoculations to counteract the lingering radiation; Jim and Spock are now among them, and they attend together. Jim accepts the hyposprays quietly. Spock accepts a gentle clap on the shoulder from Doctor McCoy, intended as a sign of comfort or camaraderie; the doctor has no time to socialize with them but sometimes he spends two or three minutes extra looking at Jim—placing a hand on the side of his face to straighten his captain’s gaze, fingers in his sandy hair, looking into his eyes and mouth with a small light. Jim does not protest, nor does Spock, who is aware that these actions are designed more for the doctor’s comfort than for any sound medical reason. Perhaps it provides a respite in the midst of the lines of tired-eyed civilians.

 

A small number of civilians have begun to return. They will be invited back slowly, neighborhood by neighborhood, but it will be four years before the city will be able to sustain its former capacity. The Academy is temporarily relocating to a location ten miles north while its buildings are reconstructed. In that wide swath of city where buildings once stood, now there is no wreckage and no indentations in the ground: there are blank spans of concrete, readied for construction, when it is time to begin. It is not time yet. Sometimes, most illogically, Spock finds himself thinking it will never be time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, and an extra thanks to my brother for fact-checking what I was saying about time! (He is a physicist. I am very not.)
> 
> I was struggling with the remaining chapters of this part (before the final part, which will take place IN SPAAAAAAACE) and then I had a lightning-strike of idea and I'm working on it like mad. But meanwhile, I thought you deserved an interlude.


	7. seven

In a lot of ways, things are almost like they were before. In some ways, they’re even better. In still other ways, the world is terrible and nothing will be right again, but Jim will take what he can get.

 

He’s got his routine down: on weekdays, he runs in the morning, then has breakfast—usually with Bones, or Hikaru or Pavel, or Hikaru and Pavel. When he brunches with Bones, he always orders some thick foreign nectar, because the good doctor still has his Kirk-is-allergic-to-everything conditioning, and Jim loves watching Bones twitch as he holds back the urge to smack the cup out of Jim’s hands. He has PT on Wednesdays, and sees Carol on Thursdays, and goes to Riverside to visit Scotty and his girl on the weekends. He and Nyota have been going to the weekly summer concerts at Golden Gate Park, and sometimes Scotty joins them, or Hikaru and Pavel. They lounge on blankets and shoot the shit and laugh until dusk.

 

And then the rest of his life is Spock.

 

He tries not to make too much of it, but it’s hard. They talk about their goddamn _feelings_ and sit side-by-side in meditation (or as close as Jim can get to it—Spock insists what Jim’s doing isn’t really meditation). They eat meal after meal together. Spock looks him in the eye and says things, things that mean something: “I am glad, Jim.” “I will see you tomorrow, I trust?” “If not for your own sake, then for mine.” “You are safe.”

 

Sometimes he’s sure he’s imagining something that isn’t there, and he feels sick to his stomach and pathetic and angry. Sometimes he’s not even sure _what_ he’s imagining. Other times his imaginings are all too clear.

 

It’s a Wednesday, and Jim’s been at PT. He still has the same guy, young and sharp and attractively lithe, and even after all these months he can’t shake the damn hospital. He asked Bones, at his latest patient meeting, why he was still doing PT, and Bones had _glared_ at him as soon as Boyce was turned away. Right: he’s doing PT because he has no right to be doing as well as he is, and stopping would be a red flag for anyone who might think something funny’s up.

 

Wednesdays are a tradition. He walks home from PT, a cool-down both physical and mental, and hops in the sonic shower. It’s effective, but it doesn’t _feel_ good. He wishes the water rations were over. His kingdom for a real shower.

 

Spock is going to be arriving soon. Jim doesn’t even have to comm anymore; Spock knows what time, where, what to bring. It occurs to him that Spock has the keycodes to his apartment now: he could let himself in. He could be in the living room right now. Jim imagines that—Spock sitting stiffly on the couch, waiting for Jim to finish his shower. If that was the case (and of course it wasn’t, because Jim’s hearing is excellent and the door hasn’t opened) but _if_ —Jim imagines that he could hear the door open, but then he could _pretend_ that he hadn’t. In his mind’s eye, he tousles his hair a little, throws one of the cream-colored towels around his waist, and walks out into the living room faux-unsuspecting.

 

If that happened, Jim thinks, he’d pretend to be embarrassed, but really he’d be watching Spock’s face for a sign. It might be a green tinge to the cheeks, a ducked head, or perhaps a direct stare. But Spock wouldn’t say anything, of course. Jim would find an excuse to stay for a few minutes, standing half-naked in the doorway and letting Spock ogle him, and then retreat into his bedroom to finish toweling himself off and don a change of clothes.

 

He opens his eyes, the sonic hissing at him. He now has a sizeable erection to deal with, obtained simply by _imagining his best friend seeing him shirtless_. He’s in way, way deep, but he can’t let himself be. This is too important. Spock is the only thing holding him together, most days, and Jim has fucked up enough things in his life.

 

Spock is never this early. Jim could take hold of himself—literal hold—and put his other hand against the tile of the shower wall and duck his head and close his eyes tight and jerk himself off. He could take his time about it. Indulge himself a little, because he _deserves_ that, or at least he thinks he does. Hell, he could even imagine Spock while he does it. Everyone has their weird guilty fantasies, right?

 

But instead he deals with the erection the way he’s been dealing with most uncomfortable things lately: he ignores it, and it goes away.

 

***

 

Spock’s there about half an hour later, dinner in one hand. Jim smells Indian food. They eat in near-silence: “How was your day?” “Sufficiently productive. And yours?” “Shitty as ever. I shouldn’t complain, but I hate Wednesdays.” “We will request reprieve once again at your next patient meeting.” It’s a chickpea vindaloo—spicy, but not melt-your-face-off spicy. Jim cools his mouth off after with a glass of milk and then washes the dishes while Spock sets up their meditation mats.

 

“What’s on the docket for today?” Jim asks.

 

“At last attempt, you were making progress in guided meditation. Shall we resume there?”

 

The first time they’d done a guided meditation, Spock had described a desert. Later, he’d explained that a simple landscape was best: forests, rivers, mountains all had too many distractions. But Jim hadn’t done well in the desert; he’d been too ill at ease. Some part of his mind had constantly been searching for water, shelter, food. Once he’d explained this, Spock had shifted gears, and now their guided meditations began in a field of high grasses. Golden sun. Gentle movements of wind. A soft quiet.

 

Jim gets there fast, compared to last time. It’s not a real field—that is, it’s not based on anywhere he’s been before. It’s beautiful, though. The grass or grain or whatever it is reaches halfway up his chest, but he doesn’t try to wade around in it. He stays still, narrowing his eyes to look toward the sky. It’s evening. The temperature is perfect. Nothing hurts.

 

Spock’s voice: “Jim, are you there?”

 

“I’m here,” he says aloud into the space. “It’s nice today. Peaceful.”

 

“Excellent. Remain where you are. For the moment, you must observe your surroundings with all senses. If, at any point in the meditations that are to come, you encounter something that frightens or angers you, or if I tell you to retreat, it is to this moment you must return. Do you understand?”

 

“I understand.”

 

He stands still, keeps grounded through the soles of his feet, opens his fingers slightly to let breeze slip through them. He inhales deeply but doesn’t quite fill his lungs. He loses time.

 

The grasses: he isn’t sure what they are. He should know this. Rye, or wheat, or alfalfa? He is barefoot, and he can feel the pressed dry stalks of previous seasons beneath his callused soles. His feet sink, slightly, in the earth. It is warm.

 

Now is the time that Spock usually tells him to move, but Spock isn’t here. It’s quiet, totally quiet except for that faint breath of wind. He knows what to do, though, even without Spock guiding him: he takes a step forward. Doing that will bring him somewhere else, somewhere his mind has been subconsciously constructing while he’s been in the field. Somewhere he needs to go.

 

Usually, the place he goes is made of metal and glass. Sometimes it’s a dirt road. Sometimes a cluster of houses and the smell of rot. He can go these places, in meditation, and draw the emotions out of them. Relive them carefully, slowly, and remove himself as soon as it gets dangerous.

 

This time he steps forward and the field doesn’t disappear. Instead, he starts to sink. It’s happening fast: within a few seconds, he can’t see over the tops of the grasses. This is meditation, so he’s not supposed to shout. Spock has told him that if things get too scary, he’s supposed to come back to the field, but he hasn’t _left_ the field, and he can’t take a step backwards because he’s hip-deep in sucking mud, in something swallowsome and dark.

 

He opens his eyes back in his own apartment. Spock’s hands are on his shoulders, both of them, one on each, his face close to Jim’s. His eyes are wide and worried. Outside it’s full dark. When he’d closed his eyes, it had been barely past eighteen-hundred hours.

 

“Jim?” Spock says, and he realizes that he hasn’t spoken.

 

“What happened? That never happened before.”

 

“You fell asleep,” Spock says, withdrawing his hands and retreating several inches. “I deemed it beneficial; you had reached a state of calm in our pre-meditative exercise, and I assumed you were overexerted due to your physical therapy and your sleep disturbances.”

 

“But you woke me,” Jim says. His mouth feels like it’s full of cotton, dry and slow. “You were worried. Did I yell or something?”

 

Spock’s face is strange. “I have no logical explanation for my behavior, but I became uneasy twenty-six-point-three minutes ago. I was considering if or how I should wake you, and decided the most peaceful method would likely be to initiate an interface with skin-to-skin contact. I have spoken to you of this before—it is the least intimate means possible; I can sense only superficial emotions from such a brief and light contact.”

 

“Did something go wrong?”

 

“May I ask you to maintain eye contact with me?”

 

“You may ask,” Jim says, but moving his mouth is hard. “What’s wrong with me?” The panic starts in his pelvis, builds up through his stomach and arcs across his ribcage and explodes into his head. He puts his head down on his knees, lifting his hands to shield his eyes from the dim lights from the living space.

 

Spock’s hand, cool and light, applies gentle pressure on the back of Jim’s head, then shifts to his forehead. “You are feverish. I will call Doctor McCoy immediately. Remain here.”

 

“Bones,” Jim moans, and crawls from his meditation mat toward the couch—a better place to rest his head. The field was warm, but here everything is cold. He thinks as hard as he can: fever, chills, probably an infection, isn’t his immune system supposed to be awesome? He needs a blanket—he pulls the cushions from the couch, but there are only pillows; the blanket he leaves there in case Spock ever wants to stay must be somewhere else.

 

“Jim,” Spock says. He’s standing near the front door. “Can you speak to Doctor McCoy?”

 

“Bones?” Jim says, and Spock approaches in long strides, placing the comm near Jim’s mouth without releasing his own hold on it.

 

“Jimmy, talk to me. How’re you feelin’?”

 

“Not so good, Bones,” he says. “Fever and chills. And there’s no blanket. And I know I’m supposed to have an antipyretic here somewhere, don’ think Spock counts.”

 

“Where’s he at, Spock?” Bones’s voice asks, and the answer is terse: “Forty-one-point-one degrees Celsius, doctor.”

 

“ _Shit._ Okay. Don’t panic. I’m sending Medical A &E. I’ll send instructions to them and meet you in the waiting room.”

 

“I prefer to remain—”

 

“Stay out of their damn way.” Bones keeps talking but Jim goes fuzzy. A minute later there’s an ice chip in his mouth, melting, and his head pounds, and there are fingers in his hair: long fingers, and his hair is wet and they’re slicking his hair back and the water is dripping down the back of his neck and someone is shushing him. A&E must be here because Spock doesn’t shush. Water on his cheeks; is it dripping or is he crying? Please let it be dripping. Forty-one-point-one. Holy shit.

 

“Why would it start attacking _now_?” This is Doctor Boyce’s voice. Jim’s in Medical. He doesn’t know how long he’s been out.

 

“God knows, Phil. I’m more worried about how it came on so fast. He was in for PT this afternoon and measuring 37 even. Spock said it happened when he was asleep—Jim went out like a light while they were trying to meditate, so he stayed awake and let him sleep. Then he got a _funny feeling_ , although he won’t call it that, and when he checked Jim was burning up. And Spock says that he went up at least a full degree over the course of ten minutes.”

 

“Where is he now?”

 

“I sent him home. He tries his best, but when Jim’s a mess, having Spock around just makes things worse. He hovers, and he makes the nurses nervous, and he second-guesses my every damn move.”

 

“He should be here. He’s on Jim’s care team.”

 

“I can call him back, if you want.”

 

“Bones,” Jim whispers, lifting a hand. The doctors’ attentions shift to him, and Bones has Jim’s hand wrapped up in his own in seconds. Boyce turns to the charts and initiates another scan, which swishes over Jim in a wave of light but feels like nothing. That’s new. That means they’re in the emergency ward, not the quiet recovery ward that Jim remembers. So he can’t have been here long—that’s the reassurance he’s able to offer himself.

 

“Looking a little better,” Boyce says. “Captain, have you been feeling under the weather?”

 

“No, I was great,” Jim says, and when Bones scoffs, “no, really, I was feeling good today. Things were good. What’s happening to me?”

 

“You’re having an immune reaction to what’s left of the serum, but we can’t tell what’s really happening yet. If it’s your body attacking the serum and messing up in the process, or the serum attacking you.”

 

More than anything he wants Boyce out of the room right now, but there are probably cameras anyway, so they can’t talk frankly regardless. “If it’s my body attacking the serum, do we want that? Can we speed that along?”

 

“Waiting on test results for that. It’s not good right now, but that’s about all we know.”

 

“What else ‘s wrong with me?” Jim looks from one to the other. “Did I have a panic attack or febrile seizures or something?”

 

“No, fortunately. Right now it’s just the fever, but considering the context here, we’d rather keep you monitored to make sure nothing gets worse.”

 

“Why haven’t you neutralized it yet? I know you’ve got hypos that could cool me down in ten seconds flat, Bones.”

 

“I don’t want to mess with your immune system right now, Jim. I’m going to let it take its course until I get labs that tell me otherwise.”

 

It’s a dumb idea, but Jim swings his legs off the edge of the bed. Black spots dance in front of his eyes, and he’s not entirely sure he can walk, but in an instant Boyce is at one arm and Bones at the other.

 

“I want out, then,” he says firmly. “Throw me a monitor, a chip or a bracelet or whatever, and let me go home. You can bring me back when you figure something out.”

 

“I can’t release you into your own custody. You’re still at forty degrees, which, according to Medical's standards of care, means you aren't competent to make your own medical decisions.”

 

“Then give me my comm and I’ll call Spock. You can release me to his care.”

 

“Jim, you can’t honestly expect the hobgoblin to—”

 

“Are you serious right now, Bones?” The room goes quiet a minute, and Jim says, “That’s what I thought,” and holds out his hand until Doctor Boyce slaps his comm into it.

 

***

 

Over the days that follow, the captain spends more time asleep than awake, but his rest is fitful. Doctor McCoy’s resources are limited, since he is the only medical professional who knows the truth of the serum, and so there in his apartment, Jim hovers between thirty-nine and forty degrees for five straight days. He wears the same two pairs of pajama pants and wrinkled shirts, sent through the fresher and then reapplied. He says very little.

 

Sometimes, when Jim falls asleep on the couch and doesn’t wake within an hour, Spock slides his arms under the captain’s knees and shoulders and carries him into the bedroom, covering him with a sheet and trying to minimize skin contact. Sometimes he uses the spongelike cloths that Doctor McCoy has provided to apply cool water to Jim’s forehead.

 

The second day of Jim’s at-home convalescence, Nyota arrives at oh-nine-hundred with large, steaming cups of tea—herbal for them, black for herself—and carefully packaged food. Jim’s is a ginger-chicken broth, and she feeds it to him herself with no words. After that she withdraws her own meal, and Spock’s, both of which consist of steamed vegetable bao. “I’ll come tomorrow,” she says, “same time. Comm me if you have a taste for anything.”

 

“Thank you,” he says, and she smiles and kisses the corner of his mouth.

 

Jim falls asleep again after breakfast, and Spock pulls out his own mat, abandoned in the corner, and attempts to meditate. After fifty-three minutes of solid, productive meditation, he is withdrawn from the state by sounds from the next room. Jim’s body is thrashing, but the muscle tone is clear: this is a fever dream, not a seizure. He moans, then whimpers. Spock reaches out and places the pads of his fingers on Jim’s cheek—not on his psi points, but close enough to achieve a deeper interface than his more frequent contact through the back of his hand. Jim wakes, and Spock senses relief, embarrassment, comfort, gratefulness, lingering fear, and then an involuntary thought pushed at him, _no get out_. He withdraws, and Jim’s face reddens.

 

“Sorry,” Jim says. “I don’t know why—thank you. I didn’t mind. I just got shy, I think.”

 

“It is I who should apologize for neglecting to terminate my contact once you were awake,” Spock says.

 

“You were just trying to make sure I’m okay,” Jim says, running a hand through his sweat-damp hair. “I could feel that.”

 

“Nevertheless.”

 

Doctor McCoy visits in the afternoon. Neither Jim nor Spock has eaten since Nyota left, and Spock synthesizes a vegetable chili for all three of them. McCoy eyes Jim, who sits at the end of the table and forces himself to eat, but doesn’t say anything.

 

In the evening, Jim comes out of his room and joins Spock on the couch, lifting up his legs to cross them. “I think I’m awake for real now,” he says.

 

“You do seem alert,” Spock observes, “but your temperature remains above 39 degrees Celsius.”

 

“I thought we could talk,” Jim says. “About emotions. I’d been thinking, before the fever, that it was a shame I wasn’t metabolizing alcohol right because it would be great if you could get me drunk. I mean, I’d be able to open up a little more.”

 

“I am aware of the human tendency to use alcohol as social lubrication.”

 

“Yeah, well, I guess this is about the closest we get, unless my metabolism changes again once this immune stuff settles down. I’m not incapacitated, but my inhibitions are lowered, and I think that might help us work through some of the stuff I’ve been blocking. If you’re willing.”

 

Spock does not say, _I am always willing_.

 

“At this juncture, I think it likely that meditation would be a swift avenue to sleep,” Spock says. “I am not a specialist in human psychology, Jim. But I am willing to listen to what you have to say. To anything you might wish to share with me.”

 

“I think it actually helps that you’re not a shrink,” Jim says, smirking a little. “I mean, if you were, though, you’d ask how I feel.”

 

“I believe the most productive way to make use of your lessened inhibitions will be to ask unexpected questions,” Spock says. “Instead of focusing on the negative, as we have so far, will you tell me what experiences you have had lately that elicit positive emotions?”

 

Jim thinks for a moment. “I know we’ve talked a lot about how helpless I feel, and angry about not being able to control what happened to me,” he says. “So really anything now that I feel I _can_ control feels good. And realizing that I’m not taking things for granted.”

 

“Very sensible,” Spock says, “and astute of you to recognize the nature of that contrast, control versus helplessness. Can you provide more specific examples?”

 

“Yeah, I mean, obviously there’s a lot I took for granted before. I’m getting pleasure from simple things, like the scents from my herbs or the way things taste. Or, I went to Hikaru’s place the other day. Lieutenant Sulu, I mean. And he has these beautiful houseplants, and it was so nice to see things growing.”

 

There is an obvious hesitation. “What more, Jim?” Spock asks.

 

“Well, you,” Jim answers, and his face is already so flushed from fever that Spock cannot tell if it is flushing further. He chooses his next words very carefully. “Cultivating our friendship has made me feel like I’m doing something worthwhile. And you… I guess you probably think that faith is illogical, but if not faith, I feel like you have _trust_ in me. The others too, but humans aren’t always the most rational about who they put their cards in with. But when I think about it… I feel like if you trust me to be your captain, maybe I can be deserving of that.”

 

“You do not believe so independently?”

 

“I don’t know. It’s always what I wanted, but it started out as completing a dare. I didn’t have noble intentions, back then. I was able to bullshit it. I’ve always known what the people in charge wanted—the cops and judges when I was a kid, people administering tests, my professors, and the admirals; they’re all so easily manipulated. I was able to manufacture the sort of passion and caring they were looking for, cover up the depth of my own ambition. Because that would’ve scared anyone away.” He laughs humorlessly.

 

“You state that you know what these authority figures desired from you,” Spock says. “What about Captain Pike?”

 

“He wanted me to be the best,” Jim says without hesitation. “I mean, that wasn’t all. He wanted validation that he was doing the right thing in recruiting me, was part of it. I was a pretty big fuckup, and he wanted me to show other people whatever it was that he saw in me. That potential. But Pike was different. He’s one of the only ones I ever cared about. When I’m talking about these authority figures, I mostly mean people who I thought were dirt beneath my feet. I was an arrogant little shit.” He looks straight at Spock. “It was easy to make me happy, back then. Chaos made me happy, and discord. Making other people react. It was like a game for me. My mom thought I was sick in the head. Took me to shrink after shrink when she was planetside, and then finally when nothing was changing, she, uh. She sent me away to live with family on an off-world ag colony for a year.” His lip twists. “Thought it would teach me some discipline, some responsibility. Maybe have some good role models. Better than her, anyway.”

 

“Your tone indicates you do not feel this endeavor was successful.”

 

“There are terrible role models everywhere,” Jim says, his voice cracking. It is clear that the break is emotional in nature, but he stands and moves to the ‘fridger, pouring himself a glass of filtered water and then pouring a second for Spock, who accepts it wordlessly.

 

“If I am to understand you correctly,” Spock says, “you are using the regard of others to bolster your own sense of self. When you lack confidence in your own ability, you seek external validation in place of personal validation.”

 

“Yeah,” Jim says. He’s looking at the floor, the water in one hand, the other hand carding through his own hair, but after a moment he looks up at Spock. His facial expression is softened, somehow. He looks very young.

 

“You perceive this coping mechanism to be unhealthy,” Spock says, “but it is not. Nor is it unique to you. It is natural to experience self-doubt. It is, in fact, healthy to seek confirmation of one’s character by examining the opinions of those you trust.”

 

“I feel like that’s true for, like…” Jim laughs. “For people in general. But I’m a captain, if Archer’ll let me be. I think I need to find my own inner reserve of confidence. I don’t always have time to look outward, to make sure I’m making the right decision.” They’re both silent a moment, and Spock cannot deny this. There are times when his own counsel will be critical to Jim’s decision-making, but it is certain that there will be other occasions upon which Jim must stand on his own.

 

“I guess I have some,” Jim says suddenly, his voice very quiet. “I know that I’m a good person now. Or that I’m capable of it. Because of what I did.” For a moment there is only the sound of their breathing. “I think that just got too heavy,” Jim says after a minute, and Spock would agree, were he capable of speaking. “I don’t know, Spock. Is this making sense?”

 

“Indeed,” he manages.

 

“How do you make yourself a better person?” Jim asks, and when Spock doesn’t answer, he sets down his water glass and rubs his hands against his legs. “Well. If we get our ship back, I’ve got the feeling we might find out together.”

 

He goes to sleep again not long after, and Spock tries, endlessly, to meditate in a dark corner of the room. The next day they will not talk about confidence or validation or role models. Nyota will visit in the morning, and Doctor McCoy in the afternoon, and at night Spock will half-carry Jim to the roof of the apartment and they will watch the stars through the haze. They will talk about the crew, and the recovery efforts. And the day after, and the day after, until Jim’s fever breaks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \--------
> 
> THANKS GUYS ILU. Things are getting real, and I think I should be able to keep updating on a pretty regular basis through the end of this section.
> 
> I think we're looking at probably nine or ten long chapters total, for this section, FYI. My plot tribbles have been prolific.


	8. eight.

Jim stands at the front of the room with the demeanor of a professor. Spock expects to see signs of anxiety or uncertainty, but he does not—the captain is dressed in his proper command gold for the first time in months, his hair longer than usual but carefully coiffed to hide that fact, his face clean-shaven and his eyes clear.

 

It has been nearly five months since they last held a full, in-person senior crew briefing. In that time, Spock's fellow officers have changed. As the briefing has not been called to order, he allows himself to stand back and observe.

 

Engineer Scott has allowed his facial hair to grow out, creating a somewhat less youthful appearance that well befits him. It has been trimmed since last Spock saw him. Previously the growth of hair had appeared thoughtless, as though he simply had not taken the time to shave, and his face had been streaked with dark, unidentifiable substances: oils, perhaps, and some sort of char.

 

Ensign Chekov, on the other hand, has cut his unruly hair very short, to similar effect, but his eyes are still bright, his face and hands both expressive as he speaks to Mr. Scott.

 

Lieutenant Sulu's style has not changed, but his physicality and expression have. He has strongly defined muscle tone, visible even through his regulation uniform. Spock imagines the lieutenant’s body straining under the weight of rubble, pressing glass and metal into place, holding it upright as it is secured. He has been building. Spock has been aware of this in an academic sense—he has kept track of the movements of all of his crew—but to see the man changed makes it easier to imagine the work. His facial expression is firm, his posture indicating attentiveness and his body turned towards the Captain's, although Jim is silent, observing the room just as Spock is.

 

Nyota has lost weight. Her long-sleeved uniform hangs loosely on her arms and shoulders. This can be a sign of many conditions, many states of being, many of them unhealthy but some inevitable for an individual living in the aftermath of a terrorist attack. He is not certain if it is appropriate, within the current parameters of their relationship, to express concern. He will reconsider at a later date.

 

Carol Marcus's hair is long and currently worn loose. Regulation will require her to wear it differently on duty, but when considered by the standards of an individual and not those of an officer, it suits her. She is not wearing any of her standard cosmetics products. She is also out of uniform, but that is acceptable, seeing as she is once again attending the senior staff briefing by informal invitation. This time, the invitation had been his.

 

Doctor McCoy is the exception. He appears unchanged: weary, somewhat ill-humored, leaning casually against an empty stretch of wall.

 

Spock is certain that the room they inhabit was randomly selected by Starfleet's allocations team: it is in the basement of an appropriated office building, and had any thought been put into assigning this room to the Enterprise crew, it would doubtless be intended as an insult. The design and decoration of the space makes it clear that it previously functioned as a child-care or primary-school learning facility.

 

As it is, half-disassembled school desks are stacked around the edges of the room, their interactive learning surfaces removed. Without the top surface, the seats are small for an adult, but not impossibly so. This is demonstrated: they do not overbalance when Lieutenant Sulu and Ensign Chekov simultaneously settle into a pair, side by side. The others follow suit, and Jim rubs his hands together in an anticipatory gesture. Spock and Doctor McCoy remain standing.

 

"It goes without saying that this is our first formal briefing in a long time. I know all of you have been hard at work on recovery efforts, and I want to thank you for your hard work and your dedication. Doctor McCoy tells me he's treated more than one of you for overexertion and exhaustion, which is both laudable and stupid, so good job and knock that out now.

 

"We're getting close to being ready to bring the _Enterprise_ up to Spacedock to finish up repairs, and at that point everyone in this room is going to be expected up there for duty on a rotating schedule. Before then, we expect every department to have completed the analyses you've been working on. Make sure you've got the input of your whole teams, of other departments and crews, of professors, of admiralty—honestly, we're open to talking this over with basically anyone except the press.

 

"When I say we expect them completed, I mean formally composed, in writing, presented to me and suitable to be seen by Admiral Archer. No last-minute additions scribbled in the margins." His eyes are trained on Engineer Scott, but Ensign Chekov is chuckling, which helps Spock determine that this is a lighthearted reprimand.

 

"Every department head is also invited to make security recommendations. The security team is forming an analysis as a collective, but in lieu of a formal head, they can use all the help they can get. Mister Spock and I are still reviewing candidates for that position." This is a partial truth only. They have not spoken of the security appointment in weeks.

 

"I need you also to finalize your personnel requests. Scotty, I know you've been hard at work on getting us back in the air, but Engineering was hardest hit with casualties, and I need a figure to give to the 'Fleet so that we can get officers in the ranks. This is a five-year mission, everyone, so it’s anyone’s guess how many people we’re going to need, but I want _us_ to be the ‘anyone’ doing the guessing. Archer's taken my team on this one. He’s been a starship captain before; he doesn't want to be the paper-pusher making assumptions about what we need. Let's take advantage of that all we can, because he's very likely to retire after we ship out."

 

They move next to reports from each of the officers present. Spock does not make a report, a fact about which the crew will doubtlessly gossip. Then Jim asks for questions, of which there are only a handful, all trivial queries, and then he sounds a highly informal dismissal.

 

"Before you guys go," Jim says, his voice lighter now, "I wanted to extend an invitation. Most of you probably know that I own a place in Riverside, not far from the shipyard. I'd love for anyone who's interested to join me out there for a couple days. We can have a meeting of the minds about recovery plans before everything needs to be finalized, take a tour of the ship in its current state for those of you who haven't been, and have some time away from the city to socialize. I'm thinking the weekend after this coming one. Everyone can come out on Friday, and we'll all take the shuttle back Sunday night or Monday morning.

 

"This is totally optional, but if anyone gets stuck with duty shifts on those days, I can get you out of them, no problem. I'll send out a comm about it and you can RSVP by, say, Tuesday? Okay, guys, that's all. See you soon." He claps his hands together, smiles, and waits until the crew have stood from their seats, then walks to the back of the room, straight to Spock.

 

“Was that okay?” he asks, so quietly that even Spock must strain slightly to hear the snap of his consonants. "Did I still sound like a captain?”

 

"Indeed," Spock answers. "In fact, if I may say so, more so than ever before." At this Jim's face lights up. Sulu and Chekov are stacking their seats noisily next to Jim and Spock, obviously trying to eavesdrop, but they beat a hasty retreat. McCoy claps a hand on Jim's shoulder as he departs, but says nothing. The room is empty.

 

"I must admit," Spock says, "I am surprised by your offer to host the crew at your property. It was my impression that you dislike Riverside."

 

Jim shrugs, and inclines his head toward the door. They depart together, and Spock continues, "I am also surprised that you did not mention these plans to me in advance. It is clear that you have attained official approval, if you are certain of your ability to relieve crew members of assigned duties. Surely it has been on your mind."

 

Jim flushes. "I kind of wanted it to be a surprise," he says. "I assume you'll come? I guess I shouldn't assume, I'm sorry. I probably should have told you in any case. I'm actually leaving the day after tomorrow.” The speed of his speech increases, and his gaze is suddenly flitting about as if searching for something of interest in their surroundings, his eye contact sporadic. “I've got my usual meeting out there, so I’m going early and then I'm going to stay after, and spend the week cleaning the old house to get it in shape for guests. It's basically a pile of dust, right now. So I'll be gone. I mean, we didn't have any concrete plans, but we spend a lot of time together, so I guess if you'd known I'd be gone maybe you'd have made alternate plans for this upcoming week."

 

"You need not concern yourself with my schedule," Spock says gently.

 

Jim stops just before they step outside and scuffs his feet a little. "Archer seems pleased," he says. "He's excited to see what we come up with. I didn’t mean to presume, but I do hope you'll come. I think it'll be good. Productive in several senses."

 

"I do approve of productive exercises," Spock says, and Jim looks up, his eyes bright again.

 

"You're teasing me," he says.

 

"You seem anxious regarding my response, but I can think of no logical reason I would not choose to accompany you on this endeavor," Spock says. "In fact, if you desire assistance in your cleaning efforts, or company while you complete them, please inform me. I would certainly be willing to offer my services."

 

"Oh!" Jim says, and looks away, "I'll... actually, I'll let you know about that. I'm gonna ask Bones. I just... I think I've been neglecting him recently."

 

"Logical. If it is your desire to spend personal time with the doctor, I will be glad of it. I know you wish to see your friendship eased." He considers, then chooses to continue to speak his mind, aware as he does so that this is yet another sign of his compromised controls. "However, you should also be aware that his presence need not preclude mine, if our mutual company would be beneficial for you. For the sake of your health, I am certain the doctor and I can attain a sufficient level of cooperation. Neither of us wish to provide you with undue stress."

 

Jim stops walking. They've been crossing a quad toward the transportation pad, and right now they're standing under a tree with branches that droop unhealthily, but Jim's face is alight. "Really, Spock?" he says. "Do you really want to do that?" His lips twist in amusement, his cheeks flushed with much the same pink that they had while he had been fevered. A little more quietly, he adds, "You haven't gotten sick of me yet?"

 

"I am very amenable to the idea," Spock says. “Considering I have expressed a desire to spend the next five years in close quarters with you, I question your need for the secondary reassurance.” Jim looks in the direction they had been walking, then back up at Spock, almost wonderingly. Spock's stomach lurches. He is certain that it is not due to anything he has consumed.

 

"That would be great," Jim says, and takes one step closer to Spock, whose body expresses further alarm: a sensation, a lurch, like something heavy dropping into his abdomen. Jim's hand is outstretched as if to take Spock's arm, but he drops it before making contact. "I’ll make dinner, and you could even just keep me company while I clean... I mean, I don’t want to thrust my family’s mess off onto you. I should have done this years ago."

 

"Do you expect a level of emotional catharsis to be inherent in this activity?" Jim quirks a brow at him, and Spock elaborates, "I would expect otherwise that you would have hired a service for this purpose."

 

"Ah," he says, "yeah, I guess. I want it to feel more like mine, is part of it? Now that I've finally decided I'm not selling it. Mom’s been pretty explicit that she doesn’t care what I do with it, as long as I put her stuff in storage. I considered selling it at least a dozen times, but Bones always talked me out of it." He nods, with some finality. "Last time I was out there visiting the ship, I tried to stay there and it was just so filthy I ended up getting a hotel. Dust everywhere, you know?"

 

He is speaking now as if he has forgotten he has an audience, a distant look in his eyes. "I’m also thinking if I find anything of my dad’s, I should have something for my room on the ship," he says. "But, well, that’s a later order of business. Dad’s stuff is probably in the attic, and I won’t open that up until the bedrooms are cleaned out..." He looks up at Spock, and a slow, wide grin spreads across his face. "This is gonna be great," he says. "I’ll let you know what Bones says. He can’t say no to a chance to get away."

 

***

 

Jim leaves late that Thursday, and Spock agrees to meet him on Saturday. On Friday morning, Doctor McCoy visits Spock's apartment. He arrives while Spock is packing—casual clothing, several books, his tin of spice tea. The doctor moves around the room while Spock finishes his business, examining the displayed personal effects without letting go of the large bag under his arm.

 

"My apologies," Spock says.

 

"No, sorry, I should have commed first," McCoy says. "I already talked to Jim—I was gonna head out there and keep him company while he cleans, and I hear you're doing the same, huh? But I got a message from the ex-wife. She says this week is a good time for me to visit. Joanna. My daughter. But I'm done there on Thursday afternoon, so I'll come up then and spend the night with you guys before the rest of the zoo arrives on Friday. Meanwhile, Jim left without his stuff." He pulls the burden out from under his arm and plops it ungently on the counter: it is a medical bag filled with hyposprays and several small bottles of oral medications. "He knows the deal with this stuff, and I bet you know it almost as well as he does now. Looks like you've got space to bring it with you, huh?"

 

"Indeed," Spock says. "I am gratified that you will be joining us before the others arrive. Jim has expressed a desire to spend more time with you."

 

"Yeah," the doctor says, his voice still gruff but softened. "If it was anything but Joanna... nothing else would keep me away. But he knows that. Take care of him. Make sure he relaxes some too, you know? And you too."

 

"Thank you, doctor," Spock says. "It is my hope that you will enjoy yourself also."

 

They stand awkwardly near to each other, and then McCoy re-zips the bag of hyposprays, pats it as if to reassure himself, and offers a half-wave before departing. "Thanks, Spock," he says, and the room feels emptier once he is gone.

 

***

 

On Friday at oh-seven-hundred hours, Spock receives a text-only comm. It reads, inelegantly, _do you swim_ —unpunctuated, but clear enough in its intention to warrant a response.

 

_I am not in the habit of doing so, but would be amenable if it is an activity for which you desire company._

 

Almost immediately thereafter, he sends a second message, this one to Nyota: _If you are available today for a social outing, I believe I would benefit from your assistance._

 

She responds promptly, _I should be free around 1400. Are you intending to sound mysterious?_

 

_Negative. I desire your fashion expertise to assist me in purchasing a specific item of clothing._

 

_And this item of clothing is...? I'll need to know so that I can choose the right store._

 

_I find myself in need of a bathing suit._

 

 _You're kidding._ Before he can respond, her next message has arrived: _No, I know you aren't, I'm just surprised. Can we meet for a drink first? I think we should rent a vee and head to Berkeley; there's a shopping center there that will give us several options, and there's a cafe nearby._

 

_That is agreeable. Shall I obtain a vehicle and meet you at your residence at 1400?_

 

_Perfect. See you then._

 

***

 

The café Nyota spoke of has twenty-three espresso drinks and a very large case of baked goods but only three varieties of tea. They both choose the herbal variety and sit in a darkened corner, and they sit much like they once had, her hand on his atop the table.

 

By way of explanation, he simply shows her his comm screen with Jim’s unpunctuated question. She half-smiles, and Spock is certain there is an emotional nuance in her physicality that would be interpretable by a human. “It doesn’t seem like you to accept,” she says gently.

 

“I have assured the captain—Jim—that I will make every effort to help him in his recovery,” Spock says, although this is information she already possesses.

 

“I was referring more specifically to the swimming,” she says dryly. Spock had inferred as much, but was hoping not to so directly address it. This is most likely because he is aware she is correct. Recreational swimming is far outside the scope of his normal social activities.

 

“He is clearly planning some sort of outing involving swimming, and he would not ask unless he found my company desirable.”

 

“Perfectly logical,” she says, the corner of her mouth turning up, and it is not until that moment that Spock understands she is teasing him, not rebuking him.

 

The shopping complex is not excessively crowded for a Friday afternoon in September. Nyota browses through the men’s athletic sections of a department store and quizzes Spock:

 

“Are you looking for a bodysuit or trunks?”

 

“Can you elaborate on the benefits of each?”

 

“Well, the bodysuit is mostly for modesty. There are also thermal bodysuits—I don’t think they make thermal trunks. They’re also more secure and traditionally more skintight, although you can find that in trunks as well. Hmm… it’s easier to find well-fitting trunks; it can be hard to find a bodysuit that fits appropriately in all dimensions. Trunks are also less expensive, and generally come in a wider variety of styles.”

 

“I believe trunks are more suited to my purpose.”

 

“Okay, are we thinking a simple straight cut, double lined, long, short, flared, fitted?”

 

“The fitted variety is most appealing.”

 

“Solid or patterned?”

 

“A solid black, if possible.”

 

She exhales emphatically through her nostrils and shakes her head slightly. “ _That_ , at least, I expected.”

 

The first store does not yield any results. Nyota walks closer to him than normal as they move through the mall, her hand sometimes finding the small of his back. She remains discreet, but Spock can identify the heat in her gaze as sexual in nature. They find a pair of slim black trunks in the third store, and when in the private viewing area of the dressing room Spock exits to model them for Nyota, she gives a primal vocalization, almost a growl.

 

“You find this garment sexually attractive,” he observes.

 

“I find _you_ sexually attractive,” she corrects, “most _particularly_ in that garment. Is it comfortable?”

 

“Very.” The fabric is reminiscent of standard-issue Starfleet wetsuits, but somewhat smoother in nature, a texture more like satin against his skin. The tightness is also desirable: the garment moves with him, not gathering or pulling at his skin, and well-fitting swimming wear may eliminate some of the less desirable sensations he had experienced in previous underwater experiences. He had learned at the Academy that he found the sensation of water swilling inside one’s garments to be both distracting and uncomfortable.

 

Nyota purchases the garment as a gift to him and inputs the address to her apartment in the navigation system. When they arrive, she turns off the vee and summons Spock inside.

 

Her living quarters have changed very little, but Spock finds something about them uncomfortable. He does not express that sentiment: he cannot identify a culprit, and he does not wish to offend Nyota. She takes his hand and draws him to her bedroom. It has been many weeks since he has been here, but many things are the same: the color of her sheets, the slight scent of a floral fragrance present in her housecleaning products, the dimness of the lights.

 

Nyota takes the lead, pushing Spock gently to sit on the edge of her bed and peeling off first her tunic, then his own shirt and undershirt. He places a hand on the soft skin of her waist, above her hip, and she settles herself over his lap. She shakes out her hair, adjusts herself until she is straddling him in such a way that her knees rest comfortably on the mattress, the tops of her feet on the edge of the bed near his own knees, and she bends down and presses her lips against his.

 

She is not as soft as he remembers. Her mouth seems small and angular against his, although its taste and its motions are familiar. Her hair falls across both his chest and back, and her hands drift down, fingertips gently stroking down his arms. He lifts his hand to fold into hers, and she inhales deeply. She is pleased.

 

She kisses him for a moment more, opening his mouth with her own, and then rocks gently against him.

 

Something changes.

 

As she rocks back, her eyes open. Her fingers untangle from his own. She withdraws so that her hair no longer touches his chest. She presses both hands into the bed to pull herself off of him. This seems to happen very quickly.

 

“Are you okay?” she asks, eyes wide. She moves slightly closer to him again and puts both hands to his cheeks, cupping his face gently. “Oh, Spock, no.”

 

“I am well,” he says, but now it occurs to him that the strangeness in the air might emanate from him, as opposed to some change in the room.

 

“Spock, I don’t think…” She withdraws fully, standing upright in her leggings and brassiere and placing a hand over her mouth. She appears pained. “I don’t think you want this.”

 

“I assure you, I am capable of—”

 

“No, I don’t mean you actively _don’t_. I just think… I think you’re moving on autopilot right now. I don’t think you’re actually sexually attracted to me any longer, and I—and that’s okay—I just—”

 

The flush of blood to his cheeks is human. This is humiliation; it has been some years since he has been so intimately familiar with it, but it comes so naturally that his body almost seems to welcome it. Her words ring true, but how is it possible that he has so little self-awareness that she should be able to read his own desires better than he himself?

 

“Nyota,” he says, and his voice is strangled against his will. He reaches out a hand, and she retangles her own with it and sits down beside him. “I believe you are correct, but I was not conscious of a lack of attraction. It was not my intention to mislead you.”

 

“I know,” she says. “Oh, Spock, I’m so sorry, I know. It’s all right. We still have an emotional connection, and we’ve done this so many times before, it would have been easy to just continue without realizing.”

 

This, too, rings true when he examines it. He attempts meditative breath and fails. Nyota continues to speak, perhaps consciously covering up his discomfort.

 

“It’s better,” she says gently, “that we don’t force this. If we end this now, really and officially, then we can be friends. It could get messy, otherwise.” She stands, still holding his hand, and cradles his face gently again, and says softly, “I’m going to move to the living area. Do you want to take a moment to gather your thoughts and redress and join me there?”

 

“I do,” he says, and she gathers her own tunic and a loose sweater and leaves the room. A moment later, he hears the whirr of boiling water.

 

Outside of a life-bond, it should not be possible for another to know his mind better than he knows it himself. But this, perhaps, is an element of the compromise of which he has been aware. And Nyota has always been unusually perceptive. And Nyota… Nyota has known him for a very long time.

 

It takes fifteen-point-three minutes for Spock to gather his emotional controls and mental shields sufficiently to move. He pulls his undershirt back on, and then his shirt, and sits for a moment on the edge of the bed, his bare feet touching the ground.

 

When he exits the bedroom, she is curled on the couch. She appears comfortable, and she smiles at him. There are two cups of tea, one on each of the couchside tables. The blend that Jim had made for her. Honeysuckle and orange with a very soft undercurrent of clove. He sits beside her, and then mimics her pose, pulling his feet up onto the couch and bending his knees.

 

“Tell me how you’ve been doing,” she says, so gentle, and he begins to speak of the difficulty. The way it seems his certainty leaves his own mind each day and passes to Jim’s. The swirling mess that has been at the center of his attempts to meditate each night. Then, when he has been talking for thirty-five minutes, he summons courage that should not be necessary for the truth and describes something else: the feeling he experiences when Jim turns his face toward Spock’s with a luminous smile.

 

He is not attending Nyota’s expressions as he speaks, perhaps afraid of her reactions, but now when he looks up he sees that she is crying. His words stutter to a halt, but she raises a hand in a gesture he knows from their years of friendship and intimacy. A gesture that means, _No, stop, you misunderstand._

 

“Let me tell you about something,” she says into the quiet, not wiping her face. “I’ve been working in Riverside a lot, ever since the crews came into the city and took over the clerical work I’d been doing. And I’ve been having meals with the recovery crew out there. And I’ve been… thinking about seeing someone else. I went on a date last week, and it went really well. It’s nothing serious, but it could be. Someday. And I know…” She is crying once again, but this time she wipes her eyes. “I know what you mean. About when he turns to you and smiles and you know that it’s something special. Something that’s for you, that smile. And it’s not _logical_ how much it means. And you think about it at strange times. And then sometimes you feel guilty, because it’s nothing, really, there’s nothing verbalized, nothing there… I’m feeling that too, Spock.” She smiles at him, watery but wide, and says, “He asked if you were going to kill him.”

 

“I hope you reassured him I am not prone to physical violence.”

 

She laughs. “It’s Scotty,” she says.

 

“Ah,” Spock says. “His first impression of me may be coloring his anxiety.”

 

“Yeah,” she says, and laughs again. “But I did reassure him.”

 

Spock thinks about the Lieutenant Commander, and about the many ways in which they differ from one another. Mister Scott is open in his emotions, hot-headed, unashamed of his vices, passionate about his life, his career. He makes friends easily. In many ways he could be seen to represent the antithesis of what Spock believes in—and yet he is fond of the man, who has expressed his loyalty both verbally and in his actions on more occasions than Spock can easily count. He is also brilliant, humorous, and a dedicated friend. He finds that Nyota is looking at him with some anxiety, perhaps anticipating his thoughts, his reaction to considering the contrast.

 

“Tell me about him,” Spock says.

 

“We spent a lot of time together in the hospital waiting rooms,” she says. “When you were with the admiralty. This changed him, I think. I didn’t know him well before, but he seems to be taking things more seriously. He works a lot—but so do I. He’s not great with emotions, but he’s working on it. He’s working on a lot of things on his own. I’m not going to rush into anything, but I think it’s something for the future.”

 

“He is a man of many virtues,” Spock says. “I am happy for you, Nyota.”

 

“Thank you,” she whispers. She smiles at Spock then, a little shyly. “I will miss this, though. Our relationship. It was good, wasn’t it?”

 

He considers the varied definitions of _good_. He considers the duration of their relationship. He reaches out a hand and places it on Nyota’s knee: assent is the only answer he can give, the only answer he can even imagine giving.

 

“Can I share something with you?” she asks, and as she does so, she makes very deliberate eye contact. She lifts a hand hesitantly, and at first he believes her to be poorly mimicking the _ta’al_ : but no, her _ta’al_ is perfect. She is mirroring the splay of fingers used to initiate a mind meld.

 

He reaches out and places both hands on her psi points. As soon as he has joined their minds, he can feel hers making tumbles and leaps: she is fumbling for a quality she perceives in his melded mind, a sort of fluidity. Without words, he moves to reassure her: she need not be like him. He has grown to love the way her mind works. Under his physical hands, he can feel her facial movements as she smiles. Her mind unfolds, luminous floral, and Spock sees himself.

 

He sees himself the way that she has seen him. First: a purposeful man striding into a lecture hall, nothing lost in his gestures, nothing wasted, the perfect conservation of energy. Through her eyes, he sees her remembrance of expression in his own: a slight quirk in his brow, a softening of his gaze. Her thoughts tumble in the meld, and the Nyota of the past thinks _There is a pattern; I can interpret his gestures and learn to communicate with him more efficiently; I can know him_ as the Nyota of the present thinks _Look at you, you were still so young, trying so hard to be Vulcan_.

 

He feels, through her mind, the memory of her physical discomfort as she settled into a padded wooden chair in his stifling office; her determination not to show distress. The care in his eyes, unmistakable, when he had seen the beads of sweat on her forehead: in his present mind he notes that he had not been aware, at the time, of showing such obvious concern.

 

She shows him the widening of his own eyes the first time that she put a hand on his knee. The relaxing muscles of his shoulders, his neck, the first time he had kissed her. His almost-smiling admiration the first time that he had seen her naked, and his own attractiveness (she has shown him this before, in melds while they are intimate, _look at you look at you_ showing him that he is beautiful and worthy).

 

He sees, in her mind, the image of himself moving across the quad. He is unaware of her presence, and in her memory she is comparing the swing of his arms, the looseness of his body, to when she first met him: he is opening, more and more.

 

The small gestures she had seen him make to accommodate his mother, when Amanda had visited. He had not been aware of this either: but Nyota had seen him hold out a hand to grasp his mother’s elbow, close his eyes when Amanda brushed hair from his face rather than show discomfort, turn his body toward her when they spoke to one another, let her clasp his hands before she boarded the shuttle home.

 

He sees himself bending over Admiral Pike’s wheelchair. This is the last morning before the Enterprise’s first mission with Captain Kirk as its official head. He had not known how gently his body had curved to the help the admiral to his feet, how gracefully and unstiffly they had stood together.

 

The final image… echoes. It ripples, as if with emphasis. It is a view of Spock from behind, and Jim at his side, standing together on the bridge with their bodies close, just slightly turned toward one another. Past Nyota thinks _look at them_ with a sort of awe, and present Nyota thinks _I wanted to show you._

 

She is withdrawing from the meld, but before she can, Spock gives back all that he is able: images of sun dappling her legs, the swish of her hair, the jaunty tilt of her head and the firm set of her jaw, her untrembling body standing before the Klingons, her hands steady on his so many times: _thank you, Nyota. Thank you._

 

If he can learn anything from her, he wishes for her grace, and her ability to give the perfect gifts.


	9. nine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Boom. Here we go.

Jim's early to the shuttlepad. It would be easy for him to interpret that as nervousness, but when he thinks about it, he's pretty sure it's not. It's a desire to get out of that house, for one: he's spent almost two days alone in the middle of nowhere breathing dust and eating emergency food pacs. It's also a desire to impress. Spock approves of punctuality. He probably doesn't approve of wasting time, but when the shuttle arrives and he disembarks, Spock will have no way of knowing how long Jim has been standing there.

 

The shuttle's due in eight minutes. Jim arriving early isn't because he's nervous, but that doesn't mean he _isn't nervous_. Spock had practically moved in when Jim had his immune system on red alert, but this is different. Because it's Riverside, and because there's gonna be no one else for six days, and because Jim's wearing jeans and a tee and sunglasses, and he's gotten some sun so his face and arms have freckled a little, and he's leaning against a rented motorcycle.

 

And because Nyota text-commed him this morning: _We broke up last night. We're both okay with it, but I thought you should know in case he doesn't tell you._ And Jim commed back _Thanks for letting me know_ but then deleted both messages and decided that if Spock doesn't tell him, he's not going to say a damn thing.

 

The shuttle lands two minutes early. Spock's the first one to appear in the hatch, scanning the horizon and landing his gaze firmly on Jim. He just sort of stares, without a tilt or nod or lift of his head to acknowledge, and walks down the steps with a bag in either hand.

 

"Welcome back," Jim says, taking the duffel out of Spock's hand and attaching it to the luggage rack on the back of the cycle-vee.

 

"Your face," Spock says, brows furrowed. "You have been sunburned."

 

"Yeah, I was dealing with the yard yesterday and didn't put up a screen. It's fine. Hop on, it's only about five miles back to the farm from here." He straddles the seat and pats the space behind him, and Spock fastens his second bag over his shoulder, dons the passenger helmet, and climbs on. This time he needs no prompting: his hands immediately grasp Jim's sides, his body leaning forward for balance, and Jim has to tell himself firmly that it is perfectly logical to position oneself securely on this kind of a vee.

 

They don't talk on the drive. Jim tries to keep the pace a little slower than he normally would to avoid kicking up dust, because he's pretty sure that would irritate Spock, and when they reach the house he parks in the old garage rather than leaning the vee against the side of the house like he normally would. Spock wordlessly removes the helmet, gathers his bags, and then finally gives the old head-tilt.

 

"Come on in, I'll give you the tour," Jim says.

 

“That will be most agreeable,” Spock answers.

 

The porch is invisibly screened, one of Mom's last big investments before she left, and there are chairs and a dusty coffee table. The door opens into a foyer that splits: to the right, a large kitchen, a pantry behind it; to the left, a wood-paneled dining area. Behind the dining area is the handsome wooden bannister to the upstairs area, and to the left of that is a family room with overstuffed couches and a ton of bookshelves—Jim's suddenly aware that they're probably not organized at all, and Spock is totally going to judge that. The door to the basement is nestled further back. The back of the house is made up of two bedrooms, which mirror one another.

 

Upstairs there's an open area with a daybed and four doors opening off that in all directions: three bedrooms and a large bathroom. Jim's already settled his stuff in his old room, the farthest from the staircase, but he gestures Spock into the master suite.

 

"Probably makes sense for you to stay here," he says. "You can throw your stuff down. There's a private bathroom back there, and the drawers should all be empty, although the closet's a mess. I'm sleeping in my old room, but someone should take advantage of this one. The mattress is great." It feels like a dumb thing to say, but he’s pretty sure the one advantage of his sunburn is that Spock can’t see him flush.

 

"Feel free to settle in, freshen up if you want. I'm working on the kitchen right now, so it's going to be a mess and I'm going to order in dinner tonight. You can relax up here or come down whenever you want." He leaves quickly, before he can ramble any further. He’s been running at the mouth, and Spock's said nothing besides neutral phrases of assent and understanding this whole time, but maybe that’s because he hasn't exactly been given a chance to say much more.

 

Once downstairs, Jim leans against the kitchen counter and sighs, then pours himself a glass of cold water. He's barely taken the first sip when Spock speaks from right behind him: "Where shall we begin?"

 

Covering his start of surprise with a half-laugh, Jim looks around and does a quick mental inventory. "Well, since I know where things are kept, I'm going to go through the dishes. I'll clean off a good set and pack the rest away. If you want to help, you could make up a grocery list? I sent away everything in the pantry last time I was here, right after Mom left, so we're starting from zero. Like I said, we'll just order in tonight, but then we need three squares for the two of us for the next five days, and enough to feed everybody for the weekend."

 

"You do not have a synthesizer?" Spock asks, his brow raised. Jim's not sure what that is: surprise, approval, disapproval?

 

"There's an old model in the basement, but I prefer to cook." He also prefers eating meals together, and taking breaks from cleaning, but he doesn’t need to say that. Spock’s not going to question him.

 

Spock picks up a cookbook from one of the shelves. Jim's pretty sure it's never been read. "I will select meals that can easily be prepared with and without meat," he says.

 

"Oh, no, we’ll just cook vegetarian for the week. I have the protein supplements that Bones sent with you—that’ll do it for me. Pick whatever looks good to you. I'm not picky, and I'm a good cook."

 

Spock sits on a backless stool at the kitchen island and they settle into a dusty sort of quiet. First there's just the sound of clinking dishes as Jim sorts, and then a soft in-between while he gathers an ancient pellet to cleanse the sonic and an old ratty bath towel from the hall closet, and Spock turns pages and takes careful notes in his PADD. Then Jim gets taken up in the ritual of washing: each dish gets a spray from the sonic faucet to be rid of the dust, then a quick rinse under cold water, and then they're set to drip dry on the towel, which he's laid on the other end of the kitchen island.

 

The chore is endless enough to be soothing. There's the dishes Mom got when she and Dad were married, and the ones they had before, and Frank's, and the ones that got shipped over from the farmhouse when Grandpa Tiberius died, and the beer glasses that Jim used to collect when he was working days and drinking nights. And after each dish he turns around to the many-windowed house, and the motes of dust in the sun, and Spock with his head bent over the table.

 

Before Jim's even halfway through the cupboards, Spock lifts himself from the stool and comes to stand next to him, the PADD held carefully so that Jim can take it, but it presents no immediate demand. He stops, wipes his hands dry on the corner of the bath towel, and leans back against the fridge to see what the cookbook has wrought.

 

There are two lists, one a grocery list sorted by category and alphabetized, the second a day-by-day menu with drop-downs to show which ingredients are attached to which meal.

 

They're a mix of complex and casual, from eggplant-and-feta sandwiches and cold pasta with pesto to a stir-fry with two dozen ingredients and a chili that cooks all day. "I left several options for breakfasts," Spock says, his hands folded behind his back. "I often prefer a muesli or fruit-and-oat-based blend, but if you prefer hot morning meals, there are options for that as well."

 

"Mom used to make me oatmeal and peanut butter," Jim says, and finds that he's grinning. It's not often that he thinks about that time of his life with a smile on his face, but he's not going to dig any further into that. "It's really filling, and it's got fiber and fat and protein."

 

Spock plucks the PADD from Jim's hands and squiggles at something with his stylus for all of five seconds, then hands it back. "There."

 

"Perfect." He sends the grocery list to his own device, then pads barefoot up the stairs to grab that and shoots it as an order to the local delivery service. By the time he gets back downstairs, Spock is at the sink, cleaning the glassware somehow more efficiently than Jim had. Jim finds the boxes and begins to try and pack the dishes away. They're done a solid hour before dinnertime, six boxes set by the door for pickup by a donation service and the rest of the dishes packed in newly-cleaned cupboards, deftly dusted and de-spidered.

 

"We're good," Jim proclaims, throwing himself into an armchair that desperately needs reupholstering. Spock has followed him into the living area, but drifts to the bookshelves instead. "They're not in any sort of order," Jim says apologetically.

 

"My mother's never were, either," Spock says without turning away from the books. "I suspect that in her case, it was deliberate, intended to arouse my father's irritation." Jim laughs a little, and Spock swivels to look at him and gives him a half-shadow of a smile before turning back.

 

"I feel like I should make a list," Jim says a few minutes later, half-mumbling now. "Things I've gotta do, and things I'm going to need..." He cranes to look around at Spock, who has moved to the bookshelf behind him and who is now holding six ancient books under one arm. "Are you hungry?"

 

"I am," Spock answers, a slight catch in his voice, "although I was unaware of the fact until I considered it. What are the local offerings for delivery?"

 

"I actually thought if you're up for it, maybe we could go into town," Jim says. This is a calculation, because the house is actually kind of nice with Spock in it, and Jim doesn't love being seen around town. Half of the people remember everything, and the others only recognize him from the news. "There's a nice place. Mom was friends with the owner. They deliver, but they're kind of posh, and I could use somewhere outside the house to sit down and make a list. And then if it's not too late I can swing by the hardware store and get some cleaning stuff. Everything in the closets expired while I was in the academy."

 

"'Posh'?" Spock asks, setting his armful of books on a side table.

 

"Fancy, but pretty private. Bidani's. You can look up the menu online if you want."

 

"I will trust your judgment."

 

Spock leans into him again on the cycle, his body very still, his head angled into Jim's shoulder. At first Jim thinks he's looking away from the setting sun, which is bright, but then he remembers the helmet's visor auto-tints, and then his heart starts beating like crazy and even if there’s no skin contact Spock’s sure as hell close enough to feel his pulse. He tries to think normal thoughts: he's got to clean the bathrooms, and the porch, and all the common areas. He's not going to have time for the attic, or to paint the whole house, but maybe he can—

 

"Are you well, Captain?" Spock asks, his voice quiet but close enough to be heard, the syllables crisp before the wind whips them away.

 

"I'm fine," Jim says, and doesn't correct him about the title, because apparently he can use the reminder, and maybe it was meant as one.

 

***

 

Jim spends much of dinner hand-writing a list of necessaries, his plate set aside while he bites his lip in deep thought. Spock is uncertain whether the concentration is genuine or defensive. Perhaps he should not have asked, on the ride to town, whether Jim was well: there are scores of reasons his heart rate might have elevated, ranging from excitement at their mode of transportation to anxiety about socialization in his childhood hometown. Perhaps, in asking, he gave the impression that he was here not as a friend, but as a caretaker. This was not what he had intended.

 

For his own part, he eats a plate of stuffed pasta with a savory root-vegetable filling and simple dressing, cutting each piece into quarters with the side of his fork. At one point, Jim asks if there is anything special he needs for his stay, and he requests a specific brand of glue. It is designed for mending books, but he does not say so, and Jim does not ask.

 

After he has finished eating, he reads Jim’s list from his vantage point at the table. There are detergents for linens, indicating that they will be using an old-fashioned clothing ‘fresher; primer, paint, and brushes; a trash compactor; a variety of name-brand cleaning liquids.

 

Jim glances up at him and exhales, pushing the list aside and pulling his plate before him. He eats quickly, his focus downward at his plate, his motions stiff. Spock had expected they would speak over dinner. He is disappointed. This emotion is easy to analyze, so much so that it does not require cataloguing for later exploration. He should not feel this way. He should meditate tonight to regain control over himself. He has allowed himself to develop an illogical quantity of expectations for this week, and they do not serve him.

 

At the hardware store, Jim gathers their items and pays an additional fee to have them delivered the following morning. “I’d rather not strap that much shit onto the bike,” he says as an aside to Spock.

 

Outside, it has grown dark, but the streets are lit by a series of lamps that emit yellowish light. Unfortunately, the artificial light is bright enough that they are recognized: as they leave the store, a woman on the sidewalk without raises her hand to them in greeting. “Jimmy!” she says. “Getting the old homestead readied up?”

 

“I’m not selling, Linda,” Jim answers, but he tolerates the clap she delivers to his arm. “But yeah, I’m finally getting it into decent shape.”

 

“Cody said he saw you out doing the lawn on Friday. I’d’ve thought the big boys would be keeping you busy in San Francisco. Too busy for small-town work like this.” She narrows her eyes at Spock, and Jim gives a laugh that Spock feels is clearly false. The woman smiles, though.

 

“My ship’s out here in the yard, so I’ve actually been out this way a few times this year,” he says. “And anyway, I had a long time in Medical after we came down. They practically begged me to take some time off. Um, Linda, this is my first officer, Spock. Spock, this is Linda Keer.”

 

“Jimmy was friends with my boy Cody when they were kids,” Linda says, although the tension at the corners of Jim’s eyes belies that assertion. “Jim, he’s doing landscaping now, so you just let him know if you want someone to keep the place in shape while you’re away, or if you need any work done.”

 

“We’re heading up for five years,” Jim says, “so I might need someone at that. I don’t want to let it go to seed again. I’m surprised the kids hadn’t started breaking in yet, as abandoned as it looked.” He pats the woman on the arm, a gesture mirroring the one she had given earlier, and she seems to understand it as a dismissal. Jim walks past her to his bike, and as Spock follows, the woman grabs his hand.

 

The assault on his senses is immediate: he can feel dislike and envy mixed with pity and something like fear and an onslaught of questions. She doesn’t seem to have any idea what she’s done: aloud, she is saying, “You take good care of him up there, hear? He’s one of our own.” Jim turns back to them and his eyes widen, but Spock has broken away before he can intervene, nodding to the woman and sliding onto the cycle behind Jim. He dons his helmet.

 

“Fuck,” Jim whispers, kicking off, and once they have exited the commercial section of the town he turns onto a residential avenue and stops on a darkened section of road, under the cover of full trees and away from the yellowy lights. Without dismounting, he turns his body on the bike to face Spock as best he can. “I’m so sorry,” he says, and his voice is deep and dark and genuine. “Are you okay?”

 

“I am adequate,” Spock answers, “but I appreciate your concern. Her action was unexpected, but not unique. It is rare for humans outside of Starfleet to have any understanding of Vulcans’ personal space boundaries.”

 

“I’m so sorry,” Jim says again. “I should have been paying attention, kept an eye out.” He seems both remorseful and agitated. Spock senses, from his awkward body language half-turned on the cycle, that Jim wishes to reach out in some way.

 

“Do not concern yourself,” Spock says. “I am well. The intrusion was brief.”

 

Jim places a palm on Spock’s arm, a layer of fabric between them so that there is no transference, but the gesture is one of comfort. It is so welcome, so simple in its intimacy, that Spock nearly closes his eyes. Instead he inhales deeply and gives a nod, and Jim accepts that gesture and turns to face forward once more. Spock repositions himself. They kick off again.

 

On previous rides, Jim has maintained a very reasonable speed, doubtless seeking to increase Spock’s level of comfort. But tonight as they leave the Riverside town limits and enter a dark stretch of road—the glow of the shipyard faintly visible over the gentle hills to the south, the stars overhead—Jim accelerates. Spock lifts his head. Even considering the measures taken to minimize San Francisco’s light pollution, it is infrequent that he is able to view the stars so clearly. He breathes deeply and evenly.

 

The house is dark. They both dismount in the driveway, and Jim walks the bike slowly to the small garage. Spock remains, looking upwards, and a moment later Jim returns to join him.

 

“Just a few more months, and we’ll be back out there.”

 

“That is satisfying,” Spock answers, “but I find my present circumstance also pleasant.”

 

“Yeah,” Jim says softly. “I don’t mind it so much right now, either.”

 

***

 

For no particular reason that he is able to discern, Spock cannot sleep. Instead of retiring to the suite that Jim has provided him, he sits on the daybed in the upstairs common area, under a window, and turns up the screen brightness on his PADD. He reads the most recent issue of a Vulcan medical journal, a blend of studies undertaken before the planet’s destruction and short-term research examining its repercussions. He sorts the inbox of his personal messaging account. He finds himself rereading messages previously sent to and from Nyota. This is neither logical nor productive, and his emotional reaction to the contents of the messages is significantly less intense than he might have anticipated.

 

There is still a light on in the room Jim had identified as his own, visible via the crack underneath the door, and Spock hears an occasional sound: crumpling paper, turning pages, the whuff of solid fabric being shaken out into open air. Around 0250, Jim opens the door and takes a few steps that clearly aim for minimal noise, then notices Spock and starts in surprise.

 

“Can’t sleep?” he asks. His voice is slightly hoarse, and his arms are full of what appear to be sheets. The lighted room behind him appears to be in chaos, boxes scattered across the floor.

 

“I have been reading,” Spock answers, lifting his PADD slightly.

 

Jim moves again, walking to one of the unidentified doors and opening it: a linen closet. He pulls out an empty laundry basket and dumps the contents of his arms into it, then gathers several folded sheets from piles on the shelves and turns back to Spock.

 

“If you need new sheets, or different pillows or something, it’s all in here,” he says. “Help yourself.” It is dark, but he seems embarrassed.

 

“My thanks,” Spock says. “Sleep well, Jim.” The lights in that room are extinguished some twenty minutes later.

 

Around 0400, Spock stands, neatens the sheets against which he has been resting, and withdraws to the suite. It is _posh_ , with a private bathroom that has both a jetted tub and a steam shower and a high bed piled with a completely illogical number of pillows. He changes into a soft gray shirt and, due to the many layers of warm coverings, opts not to wear the sleep pants he had packed.

 

The mattress is so soft that ensconcing himself in the coverings feels like creating a nest. He allows himself to curl slightly on his side, instead of settling on his back, and after a few inhalations is able to identify something.

 

The sheets smell like Jim. Not just faintly, but with an intense and pleasant musk. He has slept here, and recently. Spock should offer to relinquish the clearly superior room, if Jim had been using it prior to his arrival. But he will not.

 

He inhales deeply, a breath that should be meditative, and then exhales. He repeats this until the hour is deemed early rather than late: through the window, there is a faint natural light, and it falls against the wooden headboard. Spock curls into the covers more deeply, closes his eyes, and falls asleep.

 

***

 

Spock’s second day at the house is busy. When he wakes, the deliveries have been made: the fridger is full of groceries, and an array of cleaning supplies are set on the counter in the kitchen. Jim has already cleaned the restrooms; it is unclear whether he obtained any sleep, but he does not seem ill-tempered. They begin together with the living room, removing the furniture and rugs to the porch and thoroughly cleaning the floors. They dust, beat the rugs, wash and then open the windows. Jim removes the curtains and disappears into the basement, then returns and enters each of the unused bedrooms, carrying the bedding along with the detergent and beginning to launder all of this. They thoroughly clean each piece of furniture and return it to the room. Jim has obtained a metallic toolbox and uses a screwdriver to effect repairs upon several items: sconces, uneven wall hangings, a loose table leg. He begins to rewire an old lamp. At this point Spock finds the books he had identified the day before, and the glue that he had requested, and sits on the floor of the porch to mend broken spines and loose pages.

 

With the books settled to dry on a wooden bench inside the porch door, Spock returns. Jim has tackled the dining area with the same vigor, although it required much less work. They break for a very late lunch: Jim cooks a southwestern-style blend of legumes, vegetables, and grains, douses them with a spiced red topping and a cutting of fresh avocado, and wraps them in spinach-infused tortillas.

 

After the meal, Jim briefly disappears downstairs, then upstairs. He reemerges wearing a tight sleeveless top and athletic shorts with a drawstring too short to tie.

 

“I’m going to repaint the front steps and the porch,” he says. “Can you get the linens when they finish drying? Should be about ten more minutes. And then fold them, rehang the curtains, maybe see if any of them need mending, sort through the towels and bedding and separate out anything with runs or holes. Don’t remake the beds or anything, we won’t even touch the bedrooms today.”

 

Jim’s task takes longer than Spock’s, but Jim waves off the offer for help. Spock enters the porch to move the books to a new location, and then enters it again because he has been given no other instruction. In the ill-fitting clothing, Jim’s muscles are well defined. His body is lithe as he paints, and he does not look at Spock, and none of this is surprising because this is something about the way they are these days.

 

After dusk, they sit on the newly painted front steps, each with a glass of iced tea made from teabags Jim has scorned as “heathen.” Jim has sweetened his cup; Spock has added extra ice to his own.

 

“It’s only Sunday and we’re at least halfway done,” Jim says. “I think we’ve earned ourselves some recreation, don’t you?”

 

“I am content to follow whatever plans you may have,” Spock answers.

 

“Yeah, I’m thinking we take advantage of the good weather,” Jim says. “Let’s head to one of the rec areas up north. There are a few options—Sugar Bottom and Macbride were Sam’s favorites when we were kids. I’m going to find a swimming hole, but there’ll be plenty of hiking and stuff too if you don’t want to get wet.”

 

Spock thinks about admitting that he obtained a bathing suit for the sole purpose of this outing, but there is significant merit in surprising Jim “in the moment”, as it were, with his willingness to swim. So he states the agreeability of this plan and sets the alarm on his PADD for 0600, three hours before Jim has suggested they leave.

 

When he wakes in the morning, he dons the sleep pants and pads downstairs as quietly as he can. Jim seems to be asleep still, so Spock begins his plans: he prepares and packs a suitable lunch for their outing, boils water for the Vulcan spice tea as an offering for Jim in favor of the “heathen” variety from the local grocer, and once he hears stirring in the room above, beings to make a simple breakfast of fried potatoes, fresh-cut fruit, and toast.

 

“I’m supposed to do this kind of shit for _you_ ,” Jim complains a few minutes later around a mouthful of buttered whole-wheat toast. “It’s not like I’m hosting you for the sake of your convenience. You’re the one who’s helping me clean an entire house so that I can throw a party. You really didn’t have to.”

 

“I am aware that I was under no obligation to make this gesture,” Spock says, intentionally formal because it is his aim to make his captain laugh. He is successful.

 

Jim is already dressed in what he calls his “road clothes,” and has packed for the day’s trip, so he sends Spock upstairs to do the same while he cleans up the dishes. Nyota had helped with this, as well: Spock dons a tight black tunic and a pair of blue jeans, an item of clothing Jim has never witnessed him wear. His only appropriate footwear was Starfleet standard for an away mission, and it mismatches with his intentionally casual outfit, but it will suffice.

 

They mount the cycle together once again. It has become routine, and they breathe deeply together. Their bags are light, both strapped to the back of the cycle. The weather is fair, the sun bright in a clear sky, the road nearly empty as they drive north. Jim seems to know the way by heart. The wind whips at Spock, and he wishes he had chosen a jacket to cover his tunic, but the cold is not so uncomfortable he will speak of it.

 

Like the road there, the parking lot of their chosen recreation area is nearly empty. Jim does not select a map from the visitors’ kiosk, and slaps Spock’s wrist above the sleeve when he attempts to. “Adventure,” Jim says firmly, and takes the lead in selecting a trail into the woods: a narrow dirt path, rather than one of the several paved choices.

 

They move easily through light underbrush for some time. The trail narrows, the dirt less compact under their feet, and after a time the path pitches upwards until they are winding around the side of a small bluff. Jim is undeterred. Spock allows him to maintain the lead, uncertain whether they have a heading. “Adventure” would seem to indicate Jim has a desire for spontaneity, but in a park of such modest size, it seems likely that the majority unplanned headings will take them out of the park and back toward something resembling civilization: roadways or staircases or signage. This is clearly not Jim’s desire. Spock does not intervene.

 

“Feels sort of like an away mission, doesn’t it?” Jim asks when they’ve been walking for twenty minutes. Spock disagrees so intensely that the comparison had not even occurred to him, but he does not say so. He has rarely felt further from duty, and he marvels in sudden understanding. If this feels like an away mission to Jim, he must approach them similarly, at least in some regards: with a sense of adventure and exploration, openness and relief. And suddenly Spock thinks perhaps it is to his own detriment that he does not feel the same.

 

When they have been walking for forty minutes, Jim stops at the top of a loose, gravelly slope and points toward an adjoining bluff to their right, taller and steeper than the one they are about to descend. “You see that copse of trees?” he says, and Spock steps up beside him to follow the angle of his finger. He nods. “It’s hiding an entrance,” Jim says. “There’s a gulley. If we had echolocation we could tell—it’s like an optical illusion. From here it looks like a solid face, but the way the trees are growing, I can tell—”

 

“Shall we detour to explore it?” Spock asks.

 

“No such thing as a detour today,” Jim answers, and turns sideways slightly to slide through the loose patch of soil. His pace increases, and he does not pause until he’s standing in the mouth of the gulley, looking into a route that spirals inward. The path has disappeared. This is uncharted territory, as it were. Spock can hear the faint sound of running water, and from the widened grin on his captain’s face, Jim has heard it as well.

 

They climb upwards, and then down a muddy slope into a rocky grotto. Mossy rock juts upwards to shelter a large pool fed by a waterfall at the far end. Most of the space is shaded by trees that hang from the edges of the high stones. The water is clear, shallow for several feet around the edges and then plunging deep abruptly in the center. Jim lifts both hands into to air and laughs aloud.

 

“A fortuitous discovery,” Spock offers. “I believe you expressed a desire to swim?”

 

He requires no answer. Jim is already disrobing, his jacket folded over one arm, pulling his shirt over his head and balling it up in one hand, then fumbling with his sleek, leatherlike trousers. “This is perfect,” he says. “Well, close enough. It’s too rocky and shallow for diving, but that would have been too much to expect. If there was a diving spot, everyone would know about it.” He drops the shirt and jacket to the ground so that he can make use of both hands, then kicks off his shoes so that he can shuck the pants more quickly. He stands completely unabashed before Spock, wearing a pair of loose black briefs. “Are you gonna come in too?” he asks, bending to rifle through his bag and pulling out a pair of double-layered trunks striped in navy and gold.

 

Spock swings his own bag from his shoulder and busies himself with it, because Jim shows no signs of modesty: he appears to be ready to make himself nude so that he can don the trunks. He pushes items aside with deliberate slowness, giving time for the change of clothing: he had forgotten that he had packed a pair of sunglasses offered by Jim, but they will not be needed in the shade of this grotto pool. There is his lunch; he is not yet hungry. His own black trunks are at the bottom of the bag. He does not withdraw them yet.

 

“I will join you at my leisure,” Spock answers. The sound of elasticized fabric snapping against Jim’s waist tells him the change is complete, and he lifts his gaze again.

 

“Awesome!” Jim says, looking up from tying a drawstring and grinning again. Spock wishes he had brought a cam. This smile seems endless, and worth capturing, worth remembering. “I’m going in. Take your time. We’ve got all day.” He rushes over the bank of small stones, not seeming to feel them on the bottoms of his bare feet, and throws himself into the shallows, hooting loudly. With his hands, he draws himself into the deeper water, then disappears beneath the waves he has created and reemerges shaking his head as canines do, splashing prodigiously. Spock inhales. This will be a good day.

 

He sits on the dry rocks near where Jim’s clothes lay scattered and unties his own footwear. First he will let the water lap at his feet.

 

“Do you like water?” Jim asks some time later, raising his voice to be heard over his own splashing and the background noise of the small waterfall. “Being from a desert planet, I mean.”

 

“I feel a strong connection to and respect for water,” Spock answers. “Beyond my Starfleet training, I have little experience with swimming or other forms of submersion, but I do not fear it.” He pauses. “On Vulcan, we have little in the way of seasons, but there is a period ranging from three days to two weeks during which we experience a meteorological phenomenon so intense I hesitate to compare it to rain. The city was designed so that it would not flood during these times, and we gathered as much of the water as we could, and filtered and recycled it for use throughout the year.”

 

“Naturally,” Jim says.

 

“When I was a child, my mother would bring me outdoors during the downpour. It was looked down upon to indulge in the water in the way she did, but the sensory experience was intense and pleasurable.” He pauses, remembering the warmth of the water on his face, ducking his head to breathe now and then, his hair plastered back, his mother’s hand enveloping his own small one, their clothing so heavy.

 

He looks up again. Jim is treading water in the deep center of the pool, watching him. He seems to determine that Spock has finished speaking, and kicks onto his back, face toward the sky. “It sounds incredible,” he says.

 

“It was,” Spock answers, so quietly he is not certain Jim hears him.

 

Carrying his bag with him, Spock finds a place he can sit and dip his feet into the chill water without wetting his clothes. Jim’s attention has passed; he is splashing, submerging himself, and then moving toward the waterfall. It forms a thin screen, the wall of rock several feet behind it, creating a space like a small room on the far side. This holds Jim’s attention for long enough to allow Spock to change into his trunks with a measure of privacy.

 

Jim notices almost immediately once Spock has changed, swimming back towards him as Spock folds his clothing neatly and sets it further back from the water’s edge. With powerful strokes, Jim pulls himself into the shallows, standing knee-deep in the water. He tilts his head at Spock, and for a moment seems to just look. Spock feels a shiver that has little to do with temperature.

 

“Come on in,” Jim says.

 

The water is frigid. It takes significant willpower to submerse himself, but once he has done so the sensory experience grows less intense. Still, he stays near to the edges, ready to pull himself out if he should need. He swims a wide oval from one end to the other, even swimming directly under the waterfall, which is like a downpour itself, but cold and hard enough to distract him from the chill.

 

They do not speak for a time, but the quiet is not unpleasant. When he is far enough for the action not to disturb Spock, Jim splashes at the water in a juvenile fashion, but Spock cannot bring himself to disapprove. After some time undertaking their own individual activities in the water, Jim swims near Spock, and they both stay still for a time, treading water with little distance between them.

 

“Can I say something?” Jim asks.

 

“I have never known you not to speak your mind freely.”

 

“You seem really comfortable out here. Like, a lot more than I expected.”

 

“I am,” Spock admits. “I am most glad to be here with you, Jim.” And then his body chooses this moment, unfortuitously, to express its displeasure with the temperature: he shivers violently and involuntarily.

 

Jim surges forwards. His hands are on Spock’s arms, the contact firm and welcome but direct. Even in the cold, he feels much warmer that Spock.

 

“You’re freezing!” he says, alarm coloring his face and voice. He rubs his hands up and down Spock’s arms, and Spock can feel through the mental interface that Jim is not thinking of the contact. He is attempting to create warming friction, and he is feeling guilt and a different kind of his own warmth and—

 

He breaks contact. “I’m sorry,” he says. “You should have said something. Let’s get out. I wasn’t thinking, but this is shaded—that’s why it’s so cold—we can find somewhere warmer. Oh, Spock, you didn’t have to—”

 

“I have not been disingenuous with you, Jim,” Spock interrupts. “I have been enjoying myself here, and even were I not able to tell from your actions, I have just sensed definitively that you have also been content.”

 

“Shit.” Jim’s face turns a splotchy red, and he kicks back, creating distance between them. “I’m an idiot, I’m so sorry. Fuck. I wanted so badly to yell at that bitch in town last night for touching you without permission and then I do it myself.”

 

“Jim, I am not scolding you.”

 

Jim meets his eyes, and his facial expression softens. “What do you want to do?” he asks. “Are you hungry? We could get out and find a picnic area and get lunch…”

 

“We are both enjoying the seclusion that this grotto offers,” Spock says. “The rocks near our belongings are unshaded. I can relocate there and regain my body heat while you continue to swim. Take as long as you desire, Jim. I am content.”

 

“Okay,” Jim says quietly, but he follows Spock to the edge of the water. When they are both knee-deep, he surges forward once more, but does not touch. “Spock,” he says quietly, and holds out his hand, palm facing outward. “If you…”

 

Spock mirrors the gesture, and their hands meet. He is in control; he does not allow himself to indulge more than a brief surge of sensation from the contact to his fingers. Jim’s mind is clumsy, and embarrassed, and there is _I’m so happy_ and _perfect_ and _beautiful_ but he is trying to say _thank you_ , and he is trying not to say a dozen other things.

 

He withdraws back into the water, and Spock onto the rocks, and Spock thinks of the things Jim is not saying, and the things he himself is not saying, and the attentions they are paying to one another, beaded with water and hair slicked back from their faces and bodies tight with muscle, skins pale and suits tight and eyes flashing and noticing.

 

He closes his eyes. It is quieter now: Jim is swimming but not splashing, the noise of his body adding to the gentle noise of the grotto instead of interrupting it. He should meditate, but he is almost too peaceful for meditation. Instead he simply breathes. He considers the touching of palms, and the significance of the gesture in a dozen cultures and the popular Terran literary meaning and the intimacy of the gesture in Vulcan terms and the possibility that Jim is aware of that intimacy. Spock is sleeping in sheets that smell of Jim and wearing clothes designed to entice and riding motorcycles and giving gifts and designing surprises. When he considers it that way, it seems clear that he has intentions. Why should touching palm to palm be confusing, in the context of all of this?

 

Spock falls asleep on the rocks, and when he wakes, dry and warmed and calm, Jim is lying beside him, their hands inches from touching. It is clear that he has not been out of the water for long: his body is still damp, and in the sun it gleams golden. His head is turned to the side, and his eyes are on Spock, solid and solemn and soft.

 

In the parking lot, Jim strips off his cognac-colored leather jacket and wraps it around Spock’s shoulders. The sleeves are too short by an inch, but it zips securely, and the passing of warmth is immediate. Spock does not verbalize thanks. They seem unnecessary.

 

On the motorcycle back to Riverside, Jim leans back into Spock, letting their bodies press more firmly together, and Spock tucks his head on Jim’s shoulder as he had on their way to town the day before. The ride is long, and the temperature has dropped, and when Spock’s hands grow stiff from the cold he wraps his arms around Jim’s waist instead. He can feel, then, that Jim exhales. As if with relief.

 

On the road, in the growing dark, pressed together like this, they are a single object—immeasurably (almost infinitely) more aerodynamic now that they are sculpted together than they were as separate pieces.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So close! Two more chapters, and then we move on to the final section of this story.
> 
> I'm as impatient as you guys are, so J&S got a little closer in this chapter than I'd planned... But trust me when I say there is SO MUCH MORE OF THAT TO COME.


	10. ten.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter, and then the epilogue, and then PART FOOOOOOURRRRR.

The day after the grotto, Jim wakes at 0500. He hasn’t been sleeping much in a long time. Bones knows, and hasn’t started giving him sedatives or anything, so that’s about all there is to it. He doesn’t feel particularly tired during the day. He wonders if this is, as they’ve termed it, “a serum thing.” It makes sense. If Jim had been designing a superhuman, he’d’ve chosen that feature. How much more could you get done if you only had to sleep four hours a night?

  


He dresses in his workout clothes, which he’d packed as an afterthought and been sure he wouldn’t need to use, and moves through the house as quietly as he can. Pours himself a glass of water, downs it, and laces up the shoes he’d left on the porch, then slips out into the cool air. The moon is high and bright. He wants to run, but he doesn’t want to run _to_ anywhere. It’s unfortunate. He knows the landscape too well. The gulley is this way, the shipyard that way, the town that way. All that’s left is the road to the east, past the broken-down farmhouse that used to belong to the Fitzpatricks. Yellowed stalks of corn to the left, overgrown grasses to the right, dirt road ahead. It’s only a dirt road for two miles, too, and then Jim’s running on the rocky shoulder of State Highway 22. A few vees pass going the other direction, towards town, their headlights bright; he ducks his head and keeps running.

  


It’s been good out here, dust and all. Jim’s beautifully sore from all of it already: the yardwork and painting and carrying and swimming, stiff from a couple hours on the cycle, but his muscles take it. They’re ready for more.

  


Running made it hard, at first, but Jim’s gotten used to it. Whatever it was in his veins, whatever Khan has left for him as an unwilling gift, the fevers haven’t burned it off. It’s been integrated: Bones had said the word as if it left a sour taste in his mouth, and that’s when Jim knew. It’s not going away. So he’s decided to take it. If he’s stronger, he can better protect his crew. If he’s faster, he can respond to danger before anyone else. No one’s accused him of being smarter yet, but he wouldn’t say no to that either, if it came. And the sleeping, or not sleeping. No allergies. The only downside seems to be the metabolism, and if that’s the price he has to pay, it’s a small one compared to what he’s gained.

  


It’s not until he’s been running for about half an hour that he lets himself think about what’s waiting for him back at the house. Spock: who last night had stayed up with him in the lamplight of the living room, reading, both of them in their pajamas, and Jim had looked up every now and then at Spock’s bare arms, the broad muscles of his chest under the gray tank, and thought about it. That moment, in his tight swimming trunks, gentle and forgiving, pressing his palm to Jim’s when it’s offered. On the cycle, wrapping his arms around Jim’s waist and pressing his chin inwards. Sleeping in sheets that Jim has slept in, and surely knowing it. What does it mean. What the hell does that even mean.

  


He pauses for a breather that he doesn’t need. The sun’s not rising yet, but it’s thinking about it, the horizon bright enough that his body is starting to cast shadows across the field. He could keep going for hours, but Spock will be awake soon, and they can start their day together. He turns back.

  


Back at the house, Spock is sitting in one of the rocking chairs on the porch, but keeping it deliberately steady with both feet on the ground. His hands cradle a steaming mug—the spice tea, Jim hopes, not the shitty stuff the grocery store had given them. He raises his brows at Jim, but says nothing.

  


“Eaten yet?” Jim asks. He’s barely out of breath. After a seven-mile run, he probably should be a little more winded, but there’s no point pretending.

  


“Indeed,” Spock says.

  


Jim dollops extra peanut butter onto his oatmeal and downs two of the protein supplements. Spock reenters the house as he’s eating and pours Jim a cup of spice tea without asking. He wonders how much each cup costs now, or if it’s even purchasable. He cracks his neck both ways, scoops up the last of his meal, and asks, “Ready to have at this?”

  


“Quite ready,” Spock says. “I assume we will be working on the bedrooms today?”

  


“Yeah, I figure we can just go the same way as we did with the living room. Take all the furniture out, clean floor to ceiling, and reset. But there’s not much in the way of adornment in the remaining bedrooms, so it should be pretty easy.”

  


“Did your family often entertain guests?” Spock asks. Jim has to fight not to laugh.

  


“No,” he says, “my parents bought the place when they first got married. They wanted to have a ton of kids, like five or something, so they went for a big old house. Mom never talked about it, but my grandparents brought it up when she remarried.” They’d been real dicks about it, too, but Jim leaves that bit out.

  


“So these rooms have been largely unused.”

  


“Well, the whole place has been unused for the past few years, but yeah.” Mom had kept them up when she was around: spent time every other weekend dusting and sweeping and things. And now Jim’s remembering things. Remembering the handful of times they’d had a full house. When Tiberius had died, and they’d had the wake in the yard in the middle of a miserably hot summer, and half of the guests had gotten drunk and stayed the night. When he came home from the rehab center on New Berlin, fourteen and so angry and having seen so much, and everyone had come at once to talk to him. He’d never liked the extra rooms. They’d represented nothing but bad. No time like the present to make them worth something.

  


They start with the downstairs bedrooms. Jim takes the one on the left, and Spock takes the other, and aside from the occasional procedural question from Spock they spend the morning working separately. Jim’s starving by lunchtime, and almost gives in and tries the synthesizer, but there are leftover sandwich makings from their picnic food the day before, so he throws together a couple of those and they eat standing, half-crouched over the kitchen island. Jim offers Spock a protein supp, which he declares unpalatable in flavor but logically drinks anyway. By 1700, the downstairs rooms are like new, windows sparkling, beds dressed in freshly scented linens, trinkets placed strategically on the dressers to look as if they’ve been there for years (when really Jim had just found a box of crap from the basement and pulled out some frames and ornaments and polished them up), lamp and chrono on one of the twin bedside tables and a heavy vase of purple monkshood on the other side.

  


“We’ll save the upstairs rooms for tomorrow,” Jim says.

  


“And tonight?”

  


“I dunno,” Jim says, “I’ll make that stir-fry and we can read again or watch a holomovie or something.”

  


“I could catalog and organize the books in your library,” Spock says. “I find myself somewhat energized; I have no need of rest at present.”

  


“I dunno, I might follow your mom’s lead and keep them deliberately disorganized just to annoy you,” Jim teases. The faint crease that appears between Spock’s brows is beautiful. “What if we work on an itinerary for the weekend instead. That’s sort of like work and sort of like fun, if you ask me.” He half-expects a quip that no one _had_ asked, but Spock merely raises his brows and tilts his head to the side. That’s assent. Jim for the win.

  


They eat first, Jim cooking while Spock essentially thinks aloud about the sorts of sessions they might hold. Then he spends the evening alternately debating the merits of small-group work and explaining the value of traditional team-building exercises. By 2100 Spock has a clearly written itinerary with labeled time slots and transit suggestions. They’re full of good food, satisfied with the day’s work, and not remotely tired yet.

  


“Chess,” Spock suggests.

  


“I don’t have a board,” Jim says mournfully: his own was one of the few belongings he’d send to San Francisco when he’d joined up. In truth, he’s pretty sure there’s one in the attic, but that’s his dad’s board. Might be that Mom’s moratorium on using Dad’s stuff had just been because Jim was either too young or too drunk to be trusted not to break things, and neither apply anymore, but it might be something else. He’d never asked.

  


Spock busies himself once again with a pad of paper and an ink pen, and Jim picks up his PADD and tries to read. Twenty minutes later, Spock asks for a scissors. He has fashioned a 2-D board and game pieces on the stiff paper of his notepad.

  


They play til after midnight.

  


  


***

  


 

Spock dreams.

  


Often it’s the same dream every Vulcan has: the moment of the destruction, the transition in mindspace from fullness to lack. He has read of this in the journals, written in firm phrases that seem to deny the pain. He wakes from these with his vocal cords frozen, on the verge of crying out. It is also of note that unlike many other Vulcans, Spock has a clear visual to pair with the destruction of Vulcan: the howling swirl, the suck of matter, and then suddenly the yawn of empty space. Many of his contemporaries, Vulcans who had been on stations or ships or off-planet missions, had described the moment of loss associated with physical side effects. Across the galaxy, this had been for many beings the first warning sign that something had gone wrong.

  


Sixty-eight percent of off-world Vulcans had lost their balance unexpectedly. He wonders if they feel as if they have never regained it.

  


But Spock has other dreams, too. In many he is wearing a heat suit and standing in a volcano. In others he is crouched atop a flying vehicle, his knuckles bleeding, his teeth bared, and Khan is there. These are his dark dreams.

  


When he wakes on Thursday morning, long before his alarm, he gathers and finally changes the sheets. They are soaked with sweat. For the third night in a row, he has had the same dream, a new dream, and perhaps a dark dream, although he has not developed criteria to classify it as such. In the dream, he is sitting in the green bowl of the grotto, and everything has gone slow and quiet, and Jim’s golden head ducks beneath the water and does not resurface.

  


For the third morning in a row, Jim has already left the house by the time Spock wakes. The first morning, he had experienced anxiety. He’d searched the house, identified the single missing pair of shoes, but located the motorcycle in the garage, Jim’s comm left on the counter. It had taken several cycles of thought to logically conclude that his anxiety was misplaced. Jim had returned from his run, thankfully oblivious to Spock’s concern, and they had spent a pleasant day in cleaning and recreation. And then the dream again that night. And again he’d woken to an empty house.

  


So the repetition of the pattern a third time is unsurprising. Spock remakes the bed with fresh linens from the closet and resettles himself between the sheets. They smell of a cleansing agent and the soft must of five years in a cupboard.

  


The door downstairs creaks open twenty-eight minutes later, and four minutes after that, Spock can hear water beginning to boil in a kettle, and then he can smell oil sizzling in a pan. The bedrooms are finished; the house is finished. Doctor McCoy is scheduled to arrive tonight. This will be the day to finish their recovery plans. For San Francisco, and for Jim.

  


It is a day for honest moments, and if Spock is to be honest with himself, now is the time for the last piece: the completion of a story Spock has spent eight months telling. But he finds himself unable to introduce the topic. (Unwilling. He must be honest within himself: unwilling, not unable.) They talk of other things. Jim looks at Spock’s post-recovery population estimates for the first time and flatly refuses to accept them. (“The neighborhoods that have reopened already have a sixty percent return rate, and we can’t expect that to be any higher until the major businesses resettle.” “We have no assurance that the major businesses will resettle, Jim. Many of them have fully operational facilities elsewhere, and their employees have relocated their families to those locations.”) Finally, he concedes that the neighborhood-to-neighborhood ratios are correct. That is what will matter for their public transportation plan, and Spock sets it aside and feels relief. This is not the argument they should be having.

  


He asks about Jim’s plans when they return to San Francisco. Some of them he knows: meetings with the admiralty, the proposal to the city council. Others he was unaware of: Jim has an appointment with a ‘Fleet psychiatrist when they return. Spock agrees to pick him up afterwards. “Do you feel adequately prepared?” he asks.

  


“No,” Jim says, “but I’m hoping maybe after this weekend, I will be.”

  


Doctor McCoy arrives just after sunset, announced by the tromp of his heavy shoes on the front stairs. Spock greets him at the door as Jim scrambles to prepare the doctor a drink.

  


“I wasn’t expecting you so early,” Jim says, raising his voice to be heard as Spock opens the front door.

  


“Oh,” McCoy says, “well, Jo was going to a friend’s this afternoon and Jocelyn and I were s’posed to talk about the next five years. How often she has to comm, what this means for visitation after I return, whether she gets to send Jo to some damn private school, yadda yadda. But we got into it, and I’d already said goodbye to Jo, so I left early.”

  


He enters the house as if stiff, half-limping into the living room and sinking into one of the armchairs. Spock follows, taking one-third of the couch, and Jim appears a moment later with an iced beverage that he presses into the doctor’s hands. McCoy’s eyes fly open and dart between Jim’s face and the drink for a moment before he takes a sip and releases a sigh that seems to indicate deep pleasure. “That’s more like it,” he groans. “Thanks, Jim. I forgot how mean you mix these.”

  


Jim grins. “Wanna move to the porch?” he asks. “We’ve got rocking chairs.”

  


They relocate as suggested. Spock pours himself a glass of fresh water, and Jim eventually pops back inside and returns with a cup of iced tea made, Spock can tell from its weak color, from the heathen bags. Conversation is punctuated by companionable silence: Doctor McCoy speaks of his daughter’s misbehavior in tones that make it clear he believes it is appropriate for a nine-year-old. Spock contributes with some discussion of the education of Vulcan children, which the doctor claims to find fascinating in a tone of sarcasm, but only after having asked several remarkably astute questions about Vulcans’ developmental stages. Jim’s gaze shifts from the darkening horizon to Spock and McCoy and back, and when it has grown truly dark, instead of turning on the porch lights, he begins to remark on the constellations.

  


Spock wonders if Vulcans ever created constellations the way that humans had—before Surak. If they looked up and found meaning in meaningless shapes: a sehlat of the sky, a fist holding a reed, a warrior. He imagines, briefly, standing near the Forge and gazing into a dark sky toward Sol. He tries to summon the star charts as viewed from Vulcan-that-was, to imagine if Earth’s faint yellow star could ever have been a part of such a construction. He cannot recreate the scene with sufficient detail to be certain.

  


“I always loved Cassiopeia,” Jim says into the quiet. And from his seat, he leans, reaches over and draws the shape of the constellation on Spock’s leg. It leaves a faint impression in his slacks. Spock looks at him, and sees the shape of Doctor McCoy in his chair on Jim’s other side turned towards them, his shadowed face revealing nothing. But Jim has already shifted back to look outwards again, his hands resettled in his lap. “I was really disappointed when I looked at the charts and found out those stars aren’t actually anywhere near each other. I don’t know why.”

  


“It is often uncomfortable to have one’s conception of the universe challenged,” Spock answers. “To find that you are not, indeed, the center of the universe; that your perspective is limited and incomplete; that even in matters of sciences, your senses cannot be fully trusted.”

  


“I guess,” Jim says, and stands. “Anyone need another drink? I made a pitcher of this iced tea. It’s very unfabulous, but I know you like yours sweet, Bones, so you probably couldn’t even tell.”

  


“Nah, I’m good,” McCoy answers, holding up his third alcoholic beverage and swirling it so that the ice cubes clink noisily against the sides of the glass.

  


“I hope you brought hangover hypos, cuz I don’t have a stash of them anymore,” Jim says, traipsing back inside. “Spock?”

  


“Another water, perhaps,” Spock says. “No ice.”

  


“You got it.” The door closes behind him and McCoy turns in his chair again, facing Spock.

  


“How’s he doing out here?” he asks. “I would have thought it’d throw up all kinds of bad old memories, but he seems to be doing fine.”

  


“I doubt he would have fared well alone,” Spock says, “but I believe we keep him sufficiently entertained.”

  


The doctor grunts and leans back, letting his chair rock more heavily, and the floorboards of the porch beneath them squeak a little. “He gonna pass that psych eval?”

  


“As I am not the psychiatrist responsible for making that decision, I am incapable of predicting,” Spock says, and he finds that his voice has chilled.

  


“Sorry,” McCoy says, and he sounds genuinely contrite. “I just… I know you’ve been helping him. I thought you might have a guess.”

  


“Vulcans do not guess.”

  


“You’re a little less Vulcan about him than about everything else, though,” McCoy says, and then is silent for a moment. “You probably mind me sayin’ so, but it’s true. No sense in hiding from the truth.”

  


“Indeed not,” Spock says, and he allows his voice to soften. “I should not have taken objection with your question. My apologies.”

  


“Accepted,” the doctor says. His voice is soft and smooth, empty of its usual gruffness. Spock attributes this to his alcohol consumption, and perhaps residual contentment from his time with his daughter.

  


Jim hip-checks the door open and it occurs to Spock that he has been indoors for much longer than it takes to pour one glass of tea from a prefilled pitcher and one glass of iceless water. He wonders if their voices had carried enough to be heard by Jim’s now-enhanced senses. If so, he is sufficiently adept at acting to hide it: his manner is warm. He hands Spock the glass of water and lets his cooled fingertips trail across the back of Spock’s chair as he crosses behind, close enough that they drag slightly against Spock’s shirt, that the chill can be felt on his skin. He does not shiver.

  


Jim settles back in his chair with a groan of contentment and closes his eyes for a long minute, soaking up the silence, and in his presence that silence now seems pleasant.

  


“Pavel messaged me earlier. They’re supposed to be getting it at nine tomorrow,” he says after a minute. “We’ve got the fixings to go buffet-style for breakfast, what do you think? Bones, you up for making biscuits and gravy?”

  


“Always am, Jimmy. And if there’s any of that shit tea left for brewing, I can make something of it. Add some flavor. Fresh peaches in one of those bags.”

  


“Don’t waste them all on the heathen tea,” Jim laughs. “You’ve gotta show off your peach crumble to the crew. I even ordered the kind of bourbon I know you use in it, and we’ve got everything for that sinfully buttery topping.”

  


“You trying to make me look soft in front of the youngsters?” McCoy asks.

  


“They love you already, Bones. Sulu liked you even before you worked your magic and brought me back, I’ll have you know. Nyota calls you _Len_ and you don’t correct her, and Pavel thinks you hang the moon.”

  


“Well, he shouldn’t, I’ve only ever been an ass to him.”

  


“Peach crumble,” Jim says. “All will be forgiven.”

  


“Can’t say no to you, kid.”

  


“That’s why they call me captain.” Spock can _hear_ from his voice that Jim is grinning, but he looks anyway, as if to reassure himself. Jim is looking back.

  


“It’ll be ages before we see the stars like this again,” he says. “I know you prefer ‘em far away like this, Bones. I kinda feel like we should take advantage. Drag out a blanket, maybe?” His eyes are still on Spock. He is, Spock can sense, hoping for “backup”; as casually as he has posed this idea, it is one in which he is invested. At their apartments in San Francisco, Spock would turn to a bedroom and fetch a folded-up blanket himself, prepared for anything Jim has in mind, but here on the porch he can feel Doctor McCoy’s presence acutely. The doctor has been watching him, as if there is a test he must pass. Spock says nothing.

  


“It’s getting’ late,” McCoy says after a moment. “We can make the stargazing a part of the _kumbaya_ fest tomorrow, yeah? Same stars. Supposed to be clear all weekend.”

  


“Sure,” Jim says. “Add that to the roster, will you, Spock?”

  


“Certainly, Captain.”

  


Jim makes an indistinct sound in his throat, taps his fingers on the arm of his chair, and stands again. “I’m going to tuck in,” he says. “Big day tomorrow.”

  


“I’ll go unpack,” McCoy says. “Maybe get some things ready for the morning. You drink coffee, Spock?”

  


“I do not, but I am certain Nyota and the others will partake with you when they arrive. We purchased an ample supply.”

  


“If you’re up before me, the grinder’s in the middle drawer to the right of the sink. And the coffee’s top left cupboard. We’ve got equipment for a pour-over, for you, and then I’ll pull out the eight-cup when everyone’s arriving.”

  


“You spoil me, Jimmy.”

  


“I learned long ago it takes subtle bribery to keep you around,” Jim says. They’ve all stood and moved into the kitchen now, and Jim slings an arm around McCoy’s shoulder. “Come on, I’ll give you the tour so you can pick out a room.”

  


“I’ll take whatever’s quietest. I’m older than you lot, I’ll probably be turning in early.”

  


“Mom soundproofed it all,” Jim says, slinging one of McCoy’s bags over his shoulder, and Spock slips up the stairs and into the bedroom designated as his. He looks over the schedule for the following day, adding stargazing to the roster at the end of the night, and then changes into his night clothing, sits cross-legged on the bed, and forces himself to slow his thoughts. He sinks into meditation.

  


Three-point-four-eight hours later, his calm is interrupted by the sound of a raised voice. Apparently Jim’s mother’s soundproofing is insufficient protection for Vulcan aural sensitivity.

  


The outburst was brief, and he cannot identify whose voice it was, but as he moves quietly to his door and cracks it open, he can hear both voices across the open space between their rooms, heated and emphatic. Jim’s door is open. From the shadows their bodies cast on the interior wall, he surmises they are both sitting on Jim’s bed.

  


“It’s not like I don’t have reason to worry,” McCoy is saying. “Gary was _terrible_ for you, Jim. You barely made it out with your sanity.”

  


“You’re comparing this to _Gary_?” Jim answers, incredulous. “On what basis?” The doctor does not answer, and after a moment, Jim continues, his voice lowered. With both doors open, his words are still clearly audible: “Bones, look, my track record sucks, but I’ve never really tried before, you know?”

  


“I know,” McCoy answers. For all the comments the doctor makes about his age, Spock has rarely thought of them as more than a defense mechanism, but in those two words he sounds aged and wearied. There is a rustle of fabric. One of them has reached out to the other, but Spock cannot look at their shadows to see which silhouette has raised an arm. He is invading a private moment. This does not belong to him. He withdraws and closes his door, but now that he is awake, attuned to the voices, he cannot block them out.

  


“Right now I’m just focused on getting better,” Jim says. His voice is quiet.

  


“It’s good to hear that, kid.” Still wearied. Silence. Then with a slight increase in volume and pitch, “I don’t mean to rain on your parade. I really don’t.”

  


“I know.” And now it is Jim who sounds old and tired. “Don’t worry about that, I know that you of all people have my back. You always have. If you’re worried, I owe it to you to listen. I’ll try to be careful.”

  


The clink of a glass lifted from a wooden surface, the swish of ice against that glass. Spock can guess: McCoy is draining another alcoholic beverage. But all he says is, “You ready for everybody to arrive tomorrow?”

  


“Yeah, I think I am,” Jim answers, and it is not long after that that they bid one another good night. Spock hears the flick of Jim’s light turning off. He looks at the chrono. If the pattern holds, Jim will be awake in two hours for a run. He himself requires rest. He curls up in sheets that smell of detergent and cotton and finds sleep swiftly.


	11. eleven.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to wait to post this, but I couldn't.

By the time the crew has been at the Kirk farmhouse for two hours, Hikaru is insisting that this is a summer camp and Jim’s the camp counselor. Everyone has already settled in—bags thrown onto beds as claim, cups of iced tea or coffee in hand, and the house is filled with the unfamiliar noise of merry chatter. This was a good idea, Jim thinks.

 

Bones is pretending to be grumpy as he kneads a second batch of biscuit dough, having underestimated the popularity of his grandmother's old-fashioned buttermilk recipe. Hikaru is nattering on about the city repairs he's been overseeing, following Jim as the captain flits from person to person. Jim's feeling a pleasant sort of anxiety about stupid things like if his guests' cups are full—an old bartender habit, but hosting is a muscle he's let atrophy for too long. Pavel has found a spot at the dining room table with the last of the biscuits and a cup of coffee, neither of which he's touched as he and Scotty argue loudly but good-naturedly about the medical implications of long-term warp travel. Nyota and Carol are on the porch in rocking chairs, and they wave Jim away before he's gotten all the way through the door.

 

Spock had fried the hash browns and solemnly overseen the steeping of the heathen tea this morning before the others had arrived. He had stood by Jim to greet the crew as they arrived. He had sampled the doctor's smaller pot of vegetarian gravy and declared it "most palatable" and quirked a brow when the crew laughed. And then he had disappeared.

 

It’s been almost two hours, though. Jim's commed him twice: _where'd you go?_ Followed by, _are you coming back soon? don’t make me captain you._ He’s trying not to be excessive or obvious in checking his comm for a response, but the third or fourth time he pulls it out and taps the screen on, Hikaru rolls his eyes and taps him on the shoulder.

 

“Hm?” Jim says, and Hikaru jerks his dark head toward the front window.

 

Spock is pulling up on Jim’s vee, a faint trail of dust behind him, wearing the tight-fitting jeans he’d worn to the grotto and Jim’s own leather jacket over a black tee and and holy shit Jim has never been so attracted to him and this is _bad timing_ to be massively aroused. _Think terrible thoughts. Ice planets. Giant red monsters. An old half-Vulcan man who knows him so intimately that he mind-melds without even fucking asking oh fuck._

 

“You are bright red,” Hikaru whispers.

 

“Shut up,” Jim mutters. _Ice planet ice planet ice planet ice planet._ Okay.

 

Spock’s walking up the front steps now, out of sight of the picture window, but Jim hears the pleasant murmur of his voice speaking to the duo on the porch, and Carol says _Oh!_ with surprise and Nyota says _You shouldn’t have except you so should have; can I help you make it?_ and whatever Spock says is indistinguishable but it’s an obvious tone of deferral.

 

As he enters, Spock holds up a familiar tin. The one Jim knows is probably still tucked in Spock’s bag in his bedroom, but this is a new one, still sealed with a red waxlike substance. Vulcan spice tea.

 

“Where the hell did you find _that_ in Riverside?” Jim demands, ushering him in without making contact.

 

“I ordered it from a shop in Alicante last week. It was to be delivered here, to the house, but it was held up in inspection in Davenport. I decided to make use of the transport at the shipyard to obtain it personally.” He blinks. “My apologies for failing to obtain your permission to use your vehicle.”

 

“Oh! No, I don’t care, I just didn’t know where you’d gone.” He grins and plucks at the jacket.

 

Spock’s face flushes lightly green, which does funny things to Jim’s stomach and other parts. “It was draped across the seat of the cycle. It offers a surprising degree of protection against the elements.”

 

“You should get one,” Jim says. “I’d just lend you this one all the time, it looks so good on you, but your arms are a little longer than mine.”

 

“I’ve been telling him about the wonders of leather for years,” Nyota says, brushing in behind Spock and trailing a companionable hand across Jim’s back. “The latest synthetics have gotten rid of that smell you don’t like, Spock. You might as well give in.”

 

“It seems I am outnumbered,” Spock responds, raising one brow, and Nyota and Jim exchange crooked grins and then a high-five.

 

“More biscuits,” Bones announces, pulling the pan out of the over with a clatter. Nyota moans so rapturously that Jim has to restrain himself from defaulting to innuendo.

 

“This day cannot get any better,” she says. “Spock, make that spice tea, we need it in our mouths.”

 

And Scotty is grinning and clapping Pavel on the back and Hikaru is mock-boxing at Bones, who’s protecting the pan of biscuits until they’ve cooled enough to be transferred to the towel-lined bowl beside him and carried to the table, and Nyota is dancing past them to try to snag one, but Bones slaps her hand aside, and Carol is laughing at Nyota, and Spock is… looking at Jim. Just looking at him, the tin of spice tea tucked under one arm, calm and quiet. Jim was grinning a second ago, but now he tries to emulate that calm, to offer it back like an echo. Something trembles in his chest, and he wants more. All this around him, the friendship and camaraderie and family and joy, and he wants more.

 

It’s swiftly broken: “O captain my captain,” Hikaru says, and drags him to the table, where they sit on either side of Pavel and talk about antigrav training and sneak crumbs from Pavel’s plate until the hot biscuits arrive.

 

***

 

Friday is a team-building day, which means that by 2100 everyone except Jim is drinking. Even Spock cradles a stemless glass of white wine in one hand, leaning against the wall beside the bookshelf and speaking to Nyota in Vulcan. Jim really wishes that Vulcan had been one of the languages he’d learned during his three years in Linguistics Club.

 

But this is as good a time as any, without Spock hovering at his shoulder, to talk to the others.

 

He pulls Pavel aside first. “Keptin,” Pavel says, “is everything all right?”

 

“When you’re in my house and drinking my vodka, _please_ call me Jim,” he says, “and yeah, everything’s all right now. I just wanted to thank you for coming, and for putting up with my weirdness over the last few months. You were there for me when I was in the hospital and then I sort of disappeared on you. And I know I wasn’t the only one who needed support, so I’m sorry that I wasn’t there for you. I just needed some time to get my shit together. And I wanted to thank you for giving me that time.”

 

There’s a brief silence. “I cannot call you Jim,” Pavel says. “I just tried to make it come out of my mouth, and I am unable. But I will not call you keptin, in any case. You are a brave man, to give this apology and these thanks, but they are both unnecessary. For me. I cannot speak for others. But I knew that, when you were ready, you would come back to us. So for me, I was worried, yes, but I knew you had the doctor and you had Mister Spock and you were not alone, and I was not alone, so it is okay.”

 

“You did so much for me,” Jim says softly. “More than I’ll ever know, I suspect. I don’t even remember the nightmare watch, but I know it happened, and I just… I’m going to do my best to deserve this. I promise.”

 

“I did not give it to you for some future deserving,” Pavel says, “but yes, I understand. Go talk to Hikaru, he is the one who was angry with you.”

 

Well, shit.

 

Pavel sends Hikaru onto the porch, and Hikaru stands politely and looks slightly confused while Jim tries to find a less fumbling way of saying what he just said to Pavel.

 

“Hikaru,” he says, “I wanted to apologize for not being around, these past few months. I know you’ve been working on recovery a lot. I did my best to follow along from a distance. But I know that wasn’t enough, and I’m sorry.” Hikaru folds his arms. He does not look like a man to cross. “I wanted to thank you, though, for being here,” Jim continues, “and for letting me have the space to get my shit back together, because I needed it.” He’s sort of twisting his hands together, and he doesn’t know what else to say.

 

Hikaru inhales deeply and then absolutely cracks up.

 

“I’m sorry,” he gasps, “I realized about halfway through that that Pavel must have told you I was angry, which is _so mean of him_ , but I had to play along. Sorry, though. I know that was a serious bro talk, but no, Jim, it’s good. I mean, one time you threw yourself off that drill to catch me, without a helmet, in freefall toward a dying planet? You remember that? So don’t worry about being distant for a few months—especially after dying and then being really vulnerable in front of all of us. Even if I didn’t understand, you have the get out of jail free card. But, for the record, I was never actually mad.”

 

“Why would Pavel do that?!” Jim sputters.

 

“Well, do remember that he’s 19,” Hikaru says. “But it sort of. Um. Became a joke between us? That one of us was supposed to be mad at you? I mean, we talked about you a lot, while you were… not around. And at first, each of us thought that the other one was pissed off about it, and so we were trying to reassure one another that you just needed some space, and who wouldn’t. And then one day we figured out that neither of us was actually mad. And that’s when it sort of became a joke…” Hikaru’s brow creases in sudden concern. “Probably not cool.”

 

“Totally cool with me,” Jim reassures him, and Hikaru rolls on, obviously relieved.

 

“So when the rest of us would get together, I’d always tell them when Pavel was hitting the head or something, ‘Oh, I’m not worried about it, Jim’s tough, but Pavel’s really upset,’ and then when I was gone Pavel would be like—” And his Pavel impression is uncanny. “‘Ze keptin just needs his space, but Hikaru does not understand.’ So they figured that out pretty quick, and Uhura was pissed as hell that we’d joke about it, but that didn’t exactly stop us.”

 

“The two of you are fantastic and terrifying,” Jim says. “So. Are you madly in love with each other, or is it more bromance-y?”

 

“ _You_ are one to ask,” Hikaru says, and abruptly stalks back into the house. A moment later he pops his head back onto the porch. “You’re just doing this with everyone, right? Should I send someone out?”

 

“Uh, sure, throw Scotty my way,” Jim says, because Scotty’s been working on the booze for the longest, so he’d better get this over with before the man is too sloshed to remember it.

 

“Jim!” Scott says, raising a snifter as if in a toast. “You’re scheming, lad. I’ve sensed it. Let me in on your secret.”

 

“Oh,” Jim says, “no, unfortunately nothing that exciting. I’m just making the rounds to apologize to everybody. I’ve been a sort of shitty friend for the last few months, which is to say I haven’t been one at all because I haven’t been around. Especially after everything you guys did for me when things were bad, I don’t feel good about disappearing on you. So, I’m sorry about that, and that’s done now. I needed some space to clear my head, and it’s clear now.”

 

“Och,” Scotty says, and he half-stumbles forward, catches himself, downs his drink and sets the glass on the table, and then throws both of his arms around Jim. “Jim,” he says, “I’m glad you’re back wi’ us. You don’ even know how glad.”

 

“I mean, I have a fair idea,” Jim says, amused, and Scotty’s arms tighten.

 

“I mean it,” he whispers.

 

“I know you do,” Jim says. “You deserved better than what I’ve been giving you, Scotty. I’m sorry.”

 

“I’m not the sort for sloppy feelings, but I’ve missed you, lad. I won’t deny it was no’ easy on me, you keepin’ away. What happened to you, I know you think it’s stupid, but I felt responsible, and I couldn’t…” He pulls back and wipes his eyes. “Ah, and see, I told you we’d have this conversation again when I was in the cups. And that’s mine to deal with, my baggage, so that’s tha’ then. You didnae see that. Shush.”

 

“Thank you,” Jim says.

 

“Shush,” Scotty says.

 

Nyota grasps his upper arm tightly with one hand, whispers, “Okay,” and tips up onto her toes to kiss his cheek.

 

Carol is awkward about it, and Jim rambles on for a little bit but eventually figures it out and blurts, “You were doing the same thing, weren’t you?”

 

“I was. So I honestly hadn’t noticed that you were off the map,” she says, “which now makes me feel like an ass, of course. But I was too much of a coward to apologize to anyone for my own absence lest I find out no one had noticed, so…”

 

“They did,” Jim says, and takes her shoulders and pulls her in for a hug. Unprepared for it, she rocks a little on her feet, and he goes with it, rocking back and forth with her slightly as if they’re dancing. “I’m glad you’re here,” he says, and she pulls back, smiles, and slips away.

 

And then Jim sits on the porch by himself for a good long while. Not one of them had really accepted his apology, although Nyota had come close. He’s not sure how he feels about that.

 

Then Bones comes through the door.

 

“I seem to have misplaced my invitation to the porch chat,” he says, his drawl more pronounced as it always is when he drinks. He’s more sober than Jim had expected, though. Seeing Joanna’s done him good. The line of his mouth is tilted upward, the lines around his eyes softened.

 

“I was just apologizing to everyone for being such a shit for the past few months,” Jim says. “I guess you deserve that more than anybody, but for different reasons, maybe.”

 

“Well, you held up on your end of the bargain and didn’t avoid me, so I appreciate that,” Bones says, throwing himself almost violently into one of the rockers. “But it’s been tough. I think maybe I’m the one that needs to apologize. I’ve been lots your doctor and less your friend. For months, every time I’ve seen you, I’ve been going through some kind of medical rundown in my brain, even when we’re supposed to be relaxing. Not right now, though. And that’s nice.”

 

“It’s hard to separate,” Jim says. “I know that. But I’m getting better, so it’s getting easier, isn’t it?”

 

“Some days.”

 

“And you’ve always been lots my doctor,” Jim says, “even when you weren’t. Hypoing me to hell. I know this has been different, but looking out for me isn’t something you can turn off.”

 

“I might be able to if you had even a scrap of self-preservation instinct.”

 

“I do! I have more than a scrap. I have, like, a modicum.”

 

“You died, and I brought you back to life,” Bones says, “and that means I know best.”

 

***

 

Sulu is right. It’s basically a summer camp.

 

Jim and Spock take turns leading sessions the next day. They talk about cross-training in new fields, and psychological preparedness for a five-year mission, and research they ought to do starting on day one so that they can get the permissions and paperwork ready for that. They break for a late lunch, and everyone has a drink or two, which was maybe not the best idea but maybe was _the best idea_.

 

Then there’s a session on the Prime Directive, which Spock leads, and everyone laughs at inappropriate moments and Jim winces a lot. Nyota talks about First Contact protocols, and Bones spends a bit of time ranting about using proper safety gear, and Jim winces a lot more. They grill burgers and bratwurst and veggie dogs and fresh locally-grown corn on the cob for dinner, and everyone has read Spock’s syllabus so they all know enough to have one strong drink with dinner, enough to get them through what’s next, and no more.

 

They end the night with a formal presentation, complete with video and 2-D visuals projected onto the old-fashioned pull-down media screen in the living room. Jim and Spock do a mock-up of the proposal they’ll be making to the council: their San Francisco recovery plan, complete with new everything: rail system, Starfleet Headquarters and Academy, parks, hospital, rezoned residential districts, a more intuitive street system for the part of the city that was completely ruined, a city memorial and a San Francisco History Museum. The business sector they’ve designed is similar to the one that was destroyed, and has been approved by several of the key companies. They have estimates on building progress and neighborhood-by-neighborhood population for ten years forward.

 

“You’ve thought of everything,” Carol says, clearly astonished.

 

“We really haven’t,” Jim answers almost apologetically. “We’re hoping for feedback, constructive or otherwise.”

 

“Do we have estimates on the ambient radiation and other dangers, going forwards?” Bones asks. “If your population estimates are correct, we’re months away from needing a new infrastructure for anti-radiation treatments. And what about estimates for the public school re-openings? Most families won’t go for the distance-learning structure they set up, so next to nobody with kids will return until their schools are back in session.”

 

Spock takes frantic notes. “Excellent,” he says.

 

“What do we have on the future of social support systems?” Nyota asks. “There were food- and housing-assistance systems in place before, mental-health and addiction treatment centers, immigrant-support centers. Some of those are still running, but very few, and very badly. We’re going to need them more than ever.”

 

“Your public-transportation proposal is elegant and intuitive, and I’m sure it would run better than what we had before, but there’s something to be said for a return to normalcy,” Sulu puts in. “I think to some extent you’re coming at it from a Starfleet perspective, which is to say—I’m sorry I can’t think of another way to say it—an outsider’s perspective. My family has lived here for generations. I can’t imagine people being happy about letting go of all that history. There’s a movement to rebuild just as we were before, and I think there’s going to be a lot of compromise asked of proposals like this to make them appeal to that segment of the constituency.”

 

“Okay, let’s circle back to that later, because to some extent that’s political, or philosophical, but there are definitely concrete changes we can make to take that into consideration. Everybody think about that—about what things we want to go back to normal, and what things we think the citizenry could accept being updated, innovated.”

 

“I think we need some more community centers,” Bones says. “Education hubs, libraries, concert halls, and the like. Starfleet Academy has sort of served in that capacity sometimes, but that’s because the city doesn’t have enough spaces large enough to support that kind of activity. There are going to be tons of new programs. The kind you were talking about, Nyota, but then also teaching people about evacuation protocols, public health, and the like. Lessons we’ve learned.”

 

“Ve have opportunities to harness geothermal energy north of the city,” Pavel says. “It has been a topic of great interest to scientists here, and ve—they—are on the brink of success. Perhaps ve can make sure to have room for energy pipelines, or else ve vill need to restructure in ten, twelve years to make room.”

 

“If we’re goin’ there, we’re gonna need a larger spaceport in a couple decades,” Scotty says. “We can look at building that outside the city limits, but then they’ll need to reroute the air traffic to accommodate the increased north-south flow. But if we go for that, we could go ahead wi’ that right away. Tear down the existing port and that’ll give us an extra square mile to work with, at least.”

 

“I doubt Starfleet would be amenable to moving the port,” Spock says.

 

“If we can get it through wi’ Archer still at the head, it’ll be a mite easier,” Scotty counters. “He thinks the sun shines out of Jim’s arse. But maybe don’t mention it was my idea. He did get his wee beagle back, but apparently he hasnae been the same since.”

 

They’re all quiet for a minute, and then Carol says, “Sorry, I think I’m missing some history here: _what_?!” and that breaks the tension. Everyone is laughing (except Spock, who quirks a brow at Scotty instead) and while they’re off-topic Jim sends the schematics and notes to all of their personal PADDs and they continue with renewed energy, talking long into the night over scraps of paper with maps and formulas scrawled on them, equations and sketches, Spock’s fingers flying all the while over his PADD as he records it all.

 

By the time they’re done, it’s far too late for stargazing. “This is going to take days more work,” Jim murmurs as they tidy up the room once the others have gone to bed.

 

“I will look forward to it,” Spock says.

 

***

 

On Sunday, they visit the _Enterprise_.

 

Most of them have been aboard her at least once or twice, while she’s been parked in the shipyard, but she’s starting to look like a new ship again. Scotty takes over once they reach the yard, and he walks backwards like a tour guide and tells them that she’s only two weeks from Spacedock, and from there the rebuilding is finished and it’s just a matter of refitting.

 

“So what about the recovery plan here?” asks Carol, the only one among them who has not been on board since the incident. “Did we go for new and improved or just rebuild her as she was?”

 

“We have a few new bells and whistles,” Scotty says proudly, and then starts them on an actual tour to show those parts off. There’s an arboretum abutting the bio labs now, environmental controls set warmer and more humid than ship’s standard even though the landscape is only half filled in with plant species. There’s been a dramatic expansion to the previously-tiny astrometrics lab, complete with a floor-to-ceiling panoramic viewscreen for detailed mapping, and a viewing corridor has been added on one of the lower decks, along the ship’s starboard flank, although its row of windows looks out directly into the ship’s mounting equipment right now.

 

They do a rundown of the major systems. Linguistics has been moved up to Deck Two, but everything else is where it was. Bones grumbles about a piece of equipment that hasn’t been installed in Sickbay, and Jim briefly sits in his chair on the Bridge while the others examine their station consoles, and then it’s time for Engineering.

 

“Ze core has been stabilized and reinforced, of course,” Pavel says. “Of course. Ah—I am sure ve all knew that.”

 

“I appreciate everyone giving these updates,” Carol says a little hurriedly, although she clearly knows this one wasn’t for her sake. “I’ve missed out on a lot of this, since I’m not actually a senior crew member.”

 

“ _Da_ , good,” he adds, his cheeks brightly flushed, and Hikaru clears his throat and pats Pavel’s shoulder in a comforting way. Pavel sags slightly under the contact. No one is meeting Jim’s eyes, so he looks away for their sake.

 

“We’re in great shape,” Scotty says. “State-o’-the-art, really. And ye’ll be pleased with this, Doctor,” and he pats at one of several visible panels into which they’ve installed an emergency radiation suit.

 

“I shouldn’t have to be _pleased_ that they finally did what they should’ve done decades ago,” McCoy answers, but Jim knows him well enough to know that the gruffness in his voice isn’t coming from anger.

 

***

 

It’s past lunchtime when they get back to the farmhouse, so Jim arranges leftovers and sandwich fixings on the kitchen island and allows the crew to build their own meals. “We’ll have a proper sendoff dinner tonight,” he promises, and leans back against the kitchen counter, watchful. Spock selects fresh fruit and a reheated vegetarian hot dog, to which he adds mustard and pickled vegetables, then approaches and sets his plate down beside the sink. He turns so that he and Jim are standing side by side and speaks very quietly, so that Jim alone can hear.

 

“Your emotional progress is to be congratulated,” he says. “I admit I was concerned about whether you were prepared for that, but even in the face of the crew’s discomfort, you maintained your composure admirably.”

 

He had wanted to set a hand on Jim’s shoulder as Jim had sat in the captain’s chair on the bridge that morning, but he had been self-conscious, concerned about interrupting Jim’s thoughts. Now he sets aside those concerns and places his hand on Jim’s shoulder, adjusting it to tighten his grip. Jim offers him a smile and then, looking away again to the crew as they bustle around the island counter, he places his own hand on Spock’s.

 

“Thanks,” he says, and the word is burning in Spock’s mind, the suddenness of the physical contact almost too much to bear. “It’s thanks to you, you know. I couldn’t have gotten this far without you.”

 

“Fortunately, you do not need to,” Spock answers. “You are not alone in any of this.” And from across the room he sees Nyota’s eyes flicker towards them, and then away. Her face lights in a private smile, and he feels the muscles of his shoulders relax. Jim looks up at him and smiles again.

 

“But really,” he says, “thank you,” and his thumb rubs across the skin on the back of Spock’s hand, an almost-careless motion. Through the buzz of skin contact Spock can sense warmth and sincerity alongside a painful uncertainty. Jim knows. He knows something about this: about the touch of their hands, and what it means. And so Spock can revel in it, can accept that it is what he hopes it to be. A caress. An intimate touch.

 

“It has been a pleasure,” Spock says, and allows his own thumb to massage Jim’s shoulder, his collarbone, the joint of his neck, through the gold uniform tunic he has donned today. “As it will continue to be, I am sure.” And because he cannot break down the component emotions he is feeling at present, he wonders what Jim would be sensing now, were he a touch telepath. The same thing, he suspects: perhaps more warmth, and less uncertainty.

 

***

 

The crew leaves that night after a quiet dinner: the last shuttle out of Riverside is at 2100, and Nyota, who has arranged the transportation, likes to be early. Jim isn’t due back until 1100 the next morning, so he decides to stay the night; Spock ensconces himself in his guest room upstairs for long enough to cancel his 0900 and 1030 appointments, then rejoins the crew as they prepare for departure and stays when the rest leave, without a word.

 

“I wasn’t sure if you’d stay,” Jim says, watching the rented vee pull away piled with the crew and their bags, “but I was hoping you would. We never got a chance for our stargazing.” And he turns back to look at Spock. His face is soft.

 

“Is that your intention?” Spock asks. “To stargaze?”

 

“One last time before I head back to the city,” Jim says. “You can join me or not, of course, but I thought you might enjoy it.”

 

“Very much,” Spock says. “We have stargazed together in San Francisco, but as you say, it is not the same here, in the countryside.”

 

Jim fetches several blankets—a wide woolen one to lay underneath them, one to fold and use as their pillow, a third to rest over them. Already the night has chilled.

 

For some minutes they gaze upwards in silence. Then Spock makes a decision: he reaches out beneath the blankets and grasps for Jim’s hand. Jim gives it to him, almost flails to do so, clearly surprised. He looks at Spock with wide eyes.

 

“Yes?” he says, winding their fingers together, folding their hands so that the pressure is on every surface, on Spock’s palm and the back of his hands and between his fingers, and he feels as if breathing has grown more difficult. This is a human peculiarity, one he has experienced so rarely he cannot think of its last occurrence: sensations of discomfort associated with physical intimacy. Spock remembers that Jim has spoken, and while he cannot be sure what Jim is asking, he can be sure of the answer.

 

“Yes,” he says.

 

And after another long moment, his breathing normalizing, he says, "Jim," and Jim curls his body inwards, pulls the blanket down so that he can pillow his head on Spock's chest, and his eyes close and his knees draw up but he keeps their fingers intertwined, their hands thrown out. It seems uncomfortable, but Spock will not move.

 

"Yes," Jim echoes, and his voice is stone-solid, stone-certain, unwavering. "Spock," he says, his breath catching, and he pulls his hand free and twists his head up and skims one hand across Spock's chest, the other to his shoulder and gently to his cheek—just a brush of fingers—and Spock wraps his freed hand around Jim's back and holds him there.

 

In time, the stars shift, and Jim's breath grows slow and even, and his body loosens, and Spock can only hold him closer. He is warm, seems warmer than before: his body is enveloping Spock's cooler one.

 

He is asleep, peaceful, quiet, and Spock thinks, _Is this what it takes? What he needs?_ Time will tell. If this is what gives Jim peace—this contact, this intimacy—he will give it more than gladly. As much as he wants, for as long as he wants.

 

He gazes at the stars now and sees the illogical shapes. A man, shoulders wide, with a belt and a sword. A crown. A dipper that once led men and women to freedom. He can allow himself to be led. To drink the cool water, to take what he deserves, to cherish the quiet night.

 

Jim stirs, looks up at Spock with sleep-muzzy eyes and says, "You okay?"

 

"I am quite well."

 

"Mmmm. Kay. Good." He rolls onto his back, and Spock extricates his arm and finds himself chilled in the absence. Jim is gazing up at the stars, his eyes wandering but never darting back to Spock’s. "'s cold," he says eventually. “Ready to call it a night?"

 

"I am content to stay or go," Spock answers.

 

"Great." And Jim jumps to his feet, folding the blankets messily once Spock is standing and wrapping them in his arms.

 

"Okay," he says, and they trudge into the house and upstairs together, and Jim dumps the blankets in a laundry bin and says, "I'll tidy up when I'm out here next weekend. We can just sit on the porch in the morning and drink tea and read until shuttle time. Good?"

 

"I am amenable to whatever course you desire," Spock says, keeping his voice low and deliberate, because Jim seems jumpy and Spock wants the night to end quiet.

 

"That's settled then," Jim says, a contrast to Spock’s manner with his tone bright but abrupt. "Good night, see you in the morning." And he slips into his room, closing the door behind him.

 

Spock does the same, but this is not the kind of quiet he had wanted. His mind is awash with buoyancy and dread, uncertainty and hope, and sleep does not come easily.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> POSTLUDE WILL COME SOON.


	12. postlude: twelve.

Spock wakes early the morning of the final check. He takes himself through what has become a routine: tea and a light breakfast, taken alone by the window; calisthenics in the empty space of his apartment—all but the last of his belongings have been shuttled to _Enterprise_ already, a few new decorations among them—a sonic shower; a full hour of meditation in the corner where his mat had been.

 

Once he is finished, he changes into his shipboard uniform for the first time in months and straightens it before the mirror. He appears unchanged, which seems strange. He has neither gained nor lost weight, either excess or muscular. The shirt fits exactly as it did before. _Before._

 

Takeoff to landing, it is a fifty-three minute flight to Spacedock. This should be sufficient time, he thinks, to share the last story with Jim. He has been cowardly, making excuses to himself for weeks. _After the psychological evaluations are complete._ And then, _After we have presented the recovery plan._ Then, _After the anniversary ceremony._ And then, _Not on a day when he will be left alone._ Or, _Not on a day when he has a meeting with the Admiralty._ And now it is too late. They are four days from launch, and the captain and Spock will both be busy every minute of those days. There will be no time for sentimentality, only for work.

 

He is not certain why he has procrastinated for so long. It is most illogical. Jim has shown an appreciation for the stories that Spock tells. Spock cannot anticipate his emotional reaction to this particular story, but he has never allowed himself to take up the habit of delaying potentially negative experiences.

 

They meet at the shuttlecraft, on the rebuilt pad on the grounds of Headquarters, and Jim slaps a hand on Spock’s back in greeting. His smile is wide: he is excited. They buckle into the rearmost seats—this shuttle has been chartered for them as a private one. Their pilot announces launch over the speakers before they lift off and then it is silent but for the sound of the thrusters. It occurs to Spock that he could wait until the sounds of flight quiet, but he must not. He must speak now.

 

“Jim, I would like to relay another story. A final story,” he says, and Jim looks at him, wide-eyed.

 

“ _Now?_ ” he says.

 

“Yes. I have delayed too long already. The previous stories were, as you once surmised, preludes to a more critical one. This is a message, promised. One I must tell, one that pertains only to you.”

 

Jim presses a hand to his mouth as if he is going to be sick. “I never put it together,” he says through his fingers. “Shit, Spock. You were telling me about all the mind-melds you ever had with Admiral Pike, and I was _there_ , I knew you melded with him in the end, but I never put it together that _that’s_ what this was leading up to.” He doesn’t look to Spock, and Spock is suddenly glad that they are buckled in, side by side, so that they would have to crane to look directly at one another. Avoiding one another’s gaze need not feel awkward.

 

“I am sorry, Jim,” Spock says. “It is not something I wished to convey to you until I had found the correct moment to do so, but I made a promise to the Admiral, and it should not have taken me so long to follow through.”

 

“Can you…” Jim clears his throat. “Can you _show_ me, instead of telling?”

 

“No,” Spock says without thought. Thinking of the moment of the admiral’s death is painful both emotionally and with the memory of the transferred physical agony. He will not pass that to Jim—cannot, in fact, without risking psychic damage, because Jim does not have his own mental shielding as a Vulcan would.

 

“Please?” Jim asks, and _now_ he looks at Spock, and Spock returns his captain’s gaze although he does not wish to.

 

“I cannot,” Spock says quietly. “It was unwise of me to make the interface in the first place—dangerous, immensely so—but I wished to make an attempt to lessen his pain. To provide solace if I was able; to determine if I could assist. I was in his mind at the moment of his death. That is—Jim, it is not done. And for good reason.”

 

“What,” Jim says, and it is clear now that he is angry, “are you afraid of me feeling what it’s like to die? Because I’m sorry, I’ve been there and done that, in case you forgot.”

 

Spock feels his throat constrict. He blinks rapidly and looks away from Jim, but the captain has already paled, as if realizing what he has just said. “I’m sorry,” Jim whispers. “I’m sorry, that was—I just—I miss him. Even if what I’d get from your memory is nothing but what you said, the pain and fear and anger and confusion, it’s still _him_.”

 

“I understand,” Spock says, “and I will tell you all that I can, share every thought that I sensed, describe every image that flashed through his mind during the meld, but I am not capable of sharing this through a meld.”

 

Jim looks away and takes a deep, shaky breath. “Okay,” he says. “Go.”

 

“There was much of what I spoke of in the shuttle—of those emotions,” Spock says. “The fear was strong, the confusion, and usually in such a state there would be no clear communication. The meld lasted seconds only. But he was aware that he was dying, and because we had melded before, because our minds were so well attuned, he was able to speak to me in that way.

 

“I saw images: a mountaintop vista at sunrise from the vantage point of a saddled horse. The face of the woman who served as his First Officer before me, framed by a doorway with sparkling lights behind her. Your face, Jim, through blurred vision as you carried him to beam off the Narada. He seemed to catch on that. He thought my name, several times, and then without speaking he…”

 

Spock trails off. “I am sorry,” he says quietly. “I have thought, so many times, of what I must tell you, and now that it comes to it I find I cannot. You are right, Jim. These are not words for you to hear through my mouth.” He inhales deeply. “I will attempt… I will try.” He turns slightly in the seat and lifts his right hand across his body, across Jim’s body, to Jim’s left cheek. It is uncomfortable, a strain, but this will not take long. He arranges his fingers, and just before he initiates the meld, Jim leans his head, gently, onto Spock’s shoulder. The discomfort fades. Spock lets his palm press against the captain’s cheek for a moment before resuming his contact with the meld points and whispering, “My mind to your mind.”

 

And then he must focus very hard on remembering.

 

***

 

First is the pain, searing and complete. Spock is attempting to reach out to it, to share it or anesthetize or sooth and calm, but Christopher Pike is _fighting him_.

 

_No no no no no,_ he is thinking, _no, stop, no,_ listen to me, _there’s no time._

 

He should not be able to think, through that pain, should not be coherent—but he has known pain before.

 

_Captain—Admiral—Chris—_ Spock thinks in quick succession, and then under the force of the admiral’s will, _Tell me. Show me._

 

And at first it is jumbled, it is _wrong_ , it is not what Pike intends. There is an image of sun on a purple sky, the Rocky Mountain’s under the horse’s hooves, his fingers tangled in her mane, the smell of pine and rain and a strange sadness that Pike does not give Spock time to understand because he is thinking, _I knew I wouldn’t ever_ and then _This isn’t, no, I need_ and then _Look._

 

And the next image is of Number One, icicle lights in the background, Christmas, and she’s in the door and her hands are against the frame and she doesn’t want him to go (but she would never say so and they both know it). Until now Spock has been pushing this at Jim, pressing through the interface of fingers on meld points, but now Jim pushes back with surprise: _I was there,_ he thinks, _that night, that was after I left but I recognize this._

 

And then Pike’s mind cries _JIMjimJIMjimJIM_ , and Spock’s chest feels tight. The images flash like photographs; a sandy-haired child walking up the steps to a porch that Spock recognizes now; a beautiful light-haired woman accompanied by a sense of weight, of responsibility, of hope; _I dare you_ , _I dared him and he did_. A Jeffries tube aboard the Enterprise, the port behind Sickbay, where he had sat with reports when the ship was his but still and near-silent in Spacedock.

 

_Jim, I’m sorry,_ Pike thinks, and then aching, _Spock… He was supposed to be… I was supposed to get the chance to do right._

 

Jim’s face, breaking into a half-grin to say, _That was a good fight,_ and Pike remembers thinking, _He means that. Shit. He means that, he doesn’t know…_

 

And they are aboard a ship, Pike with two pips on his collar, and Jim is in the Sickbay across the room. Spock knows it is Jim because Pike knows it is Jim, but he cannot see him. Spock has never seen this ship. Jim pushes again, thinks, _What? What? He wasn’t there, that can’t be, he never said,_ and then thinks, _Mom, oh god, Mom called him,_ why didn’t they tell me, _shit shit shit not another._ And then Jim’s mind pulls back so far that he almost breaks the meld, and Spock presses calm for a moment before continuing.

 

Admiral Pike is terrified, but he thinks of Spock now. Thinks of chance meetings in the library, Spock as a student, _arrogant sonovabitch_ and Spock thinks back, pushing hard, _but you taught me_ , and Pike wants to laugh then but the pain is too much.

 

_Spock_ , he thinks, _I need this. Give me this._

 

_I will take care of him,_ Spock promises, and in the present he thinks at Jim, _But I would have done so, even had I not made this promise,_ and Jim’s head turns slightly on his shoulder, inward, as if seeking comfort, and Spock says, _It is not over,_ and continues.

 

_He_ , Chris says, _you_ , and his mind is full of choking, the air is burning in his broken lungs, the pressure is growing, and outside of the meld Jim is choking too but Spock cannot stop or he will never finish. _You can be. Great. He’s the closest I had to a son. I’m dying. Oh fuck I’m dying, I don’t want to die, I’m not done, I’m not done, it’s not fair._

 

_I am with you,_ Spock says.

 

_I hope I haven’t pissed myself, no one needs_ Chris is thinking, his mind beginning to tangle and snarl on itself, half-unaware that Spock is still here, so Spock pushes again, comfort now, perhaps it is time, perhaps it is time for comfort, and Chris gasps, _My friend,_ and Spock says, _He is here, they are here,_ and Chris says, _You,_ and Spock says, _Yes, I am, I have always been._

 

Then Chris’s body starts to relax. His warped-tight pain-spasmed muscles beginning to let go, and he thinks, _The final frontier, the final frontier, the final frontier,_ and Spock says, _The final frontier. Our mission: to explore strange new worlds. To seek out new life, and new civilizations. To boldly go where no one has gone before._ And then he says, _Captain_ , which is inaccurate but right, and the mind under his fingers does not slip away, does not flash into darkness, does not fade. It is—simply, suddenly—empty. Spock is connected to nothing, as if he were melding with a stone, or a table. His mind screams, the tendrils still outstretched, feeling the absence like a broken bond, but he recoils quickly, draws them back in before there is damage.

 

And outside, in the shuttle, he does so again: pulls back before it is too late.

 

Jim is still pressed into his shoulder, his eyes wide open, tears streaming down his face. “No,” he moans, “no, no,” and Spock turns his body further toward his captain, wraps both arms around him clumsily. He even considers unbuckling their safety belts to do so, but he cannot bring himself to withdraw for long enough to do so.

 

“He loved you,” he says softly, and Jim’s eyes squeeze shut. He is gasping. There is no room to wonder if this was the wrong thing to do, it is too late to second-guess himself, but Spock must do what he can now to repair the damage he has done. To do as he promised. To _take care of him, goddammit_.

 

He lifts a hand to the back of Jim’s head, pressing Jim’s face into the shoulder of his own uniform and feeling the dampness already through his undershirt. Jim’s hands are both fisted in his tunic, but Spock reaches up and unwinds one of them, twisting his own fingers into Jim’s, and Jim lifts his head and presses his forehead to Spock’s, still gasping.

 

“I’m sorry,” Jim says, “I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry, I couldn’t save him, and I wasn’t there, I was too late,” and Spock has nothing to say.

 

He is aware that they are still twenty-eight minutes from the ship, but he is not certain what meaning that information has.

 

And he realizes, suddenly, why he put this off for so long. A weight is gone from his chest, but it has been replaced by a new pressure, a new discomfort: now that it is done, there is nothing more. He has no plan, no road map, no idea what might come next.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading, everyone! This is the end of part three. Just one part left!
> 
> Part Four, _one equal temper of heroic hearts_ , will take place aboard the Enterprise. It will have, shall we say, a more mature rating? :D ...and wrap up all of these strings. I haven't started writing it yet, but I have PAGES UPON PAGES of plot notes.
> 
> If you have a Spotify account, here's the playlist I made as writing inspiration for Jim and Spock! https://open.spotify.com/user/celebros3019/playlist/78w3NW7d5WbNVmvA79UCzq
> 
> Highlights:
> 
> * Ladder Song by Bright Eyes (particularly lines like "you're not alone in dyin'" and "I wanna fly in your silver ship")  
> * Bright Eyes by Art Garfunkel ("bright eyes, how can you close and fail / how can the light that burned so brightly suddenly burn so pale")  
> * All We Are by Matt Nathanson (because come on, the chorus is "all we are, we are"; I'm only a little bit sorry for all the Matt Nathanson on this playlist)


End file.
